


untrust us

by hupsoonheng



Series: Nuclearstuck [5]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Child Abuse, Decapitation, F/F, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Gore, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Racist Language, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-11-18 04:40:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hupsoonheng/pseuds/hupsoonheng
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose brings Feferi home to Kanaya, and that should be the happy ending to this story, but of course, nothing is ever easy. Not only is Feferi a poorly socialized brat, but now that certain trolls know she's alive, she may be in more danger than Rose can handle. </p><p>second sequel to Young Tender Hearts Beat Fast</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ahhh did you miss me? i'm very behind on my nanowrimo word count, but i've still got today and tomorrow off to try and catch up, so hopefully i can update before i have to go to work for four nights in a row again, aghhh. 
> 
> starting off with a hefty 3500~ words! and plenty of drama.

It’s the voice you don’t recognize that wakes you up. Your eyes fly open and instantly you’re pulling on leggings, rolling out of bed and into a house coat. It’s an early Saturday morning, and already you’re grouchy. You don’t know what kind of guests Rose thinks she’s bringing into the apartment at this hour, but they’re going to have to leave, and then you’re going to sit Rose down and tell her just what you think of these kinds of shenanigans. 

But you don’t do any of those things. In fact, you stop cold, hands freezing mid-tie around the waist of your house coat. 

“Rose,” you ask in careful, measured tones—because if you don’t, you’re pretty sure you’re going to scream— “who’s this?” 

The who in question is a little taller than you if you don’t count her horns, but her horns are so long that in your plain apartment with its standard ceiling heights, she has to hunker down to fit. She has (in your less-than-humble opinion) too much hair, trailing around her heels, and sticking out of that hair in the general vicinity of where Rose has ears are two fin-like protrusions. Most striking of all are her eyes, because never on this green Earth have you ever seen that blood color. You have to wonder if she’s a mutant. 

“This is Feferi,” Rose says, gesturing toward the mutant seadweller, who isn’t even looking at you. Rose even has the gall to smile. “She’s, uh, going to be living with us for a little while.” 

“I thought she lived in a fish tank on Governor’s Island,” you say in your chilliest voice, and finish off the bow at your waist with a flourish before stalking off to the kitchen. 

“Well, she did,” Rose says as she trots after you. It feels like she’s constantly in your way as you whisk around the kitchen, pulling a cereal box down from the pantry and grabbing milk from the fridge. There’s not quite enough milk for your cereal, and you sigh heavily. “And now she’s living here.” 

“For how long?” you snap as you pour the pittance of milk over your Honey Nut Cheerios. It barely gets them wet. 

“I don’t know, a little while?” Your matesprit shrugs, suddenly not looking so confident. 

“And pray tell,” you say, a spoonful of damp cereal hovering near your mouth, “just how long is ‘a little while,’ Rose?” You take your bite. 

“A few months, maybe? She’s been through some hard times,” she says as she leans forward onto the counter, looking back over her shoulder at you. “She’s been kidnapped, not to mention endured years of brainwashing—”

“I’m sorry, isn’t she the same troll who you had to convince not to call me a ‘moldblood’ in your meetings with her?” you interrupt, brow furrowing. “And in fact,” you continue, even as Rose opens her mouth to counter that, “didn’t you tell me after the APB got put out that she’s actually drowned at least one greenblood, just for the fun of it?” 

“She’s grown out of that, though, I promise!” Rose pleads, standing straight again and reaching for your hand. You let her, and her fingers twine with yours, swinging gently. 

“Grown out of murder?” you snort, but she’s softening you up, as she often does. “Please, Rose.” 

“She’s changed, for the better. I promise. She’s been very scared these past few days, with good reason, and I think you and I would be good stability for her.” When she sees the hesitance still in your face, she continues, “If I could have asked you sooner, I would have, but this was sort of sprung on us all, and my superior agrees that I’m—that _we’re_ —the best fit for her right now. So...” Rose pouts almost cartoonishly. “Can we keep her, Kanaya, pleeeease?” 

“Fine! Fine.” You throw your hands up, Rose grinning at your capitulation. “I don’t know how you expect her to exist in this space, though, with those ridiculous horns. She keeps scraping the ceiling, and I am -not- going to be the one to explain to Javier upstairs what that ungodly noise is.” You scoop up your bowl of cereal and head back out to the living room, where you intend to ignore this Feferi while you watch New York 1 and eat your breakfast. 

“So,” Feferi says just as you sit down, “you’re Kanaya, huh?” She’s already parked herself on the other side of the couch, and you’re trying not to grind your teeth. 

“Yes,” you reply tersely. You turn on the TV and blast the volume. If you have to be up, so does everyone else, and Javier will just have to deal with it. Pat Kiernan isn’t on on the weekends, but that’s okay. NY1 still brings a sense of calm and clarity to your weekends, for reasons you can’t quite articulate. 

“I’ve heard a whole lot about you,” Feferi coos, and goddammit, she’s already actually scooting over to sit closer to you. You scowl harder, munching aggressively on the little crunchy loops. “You’re Rose’s matesprit?” 

“Yes!” New York 1 gets even louder. A throw pillow hits your shoulder, and your head whips around to glare daggers at the culprit. Her grin is full of mischief, not to mention a mouthful of almost spiny teeth. You don’t mean to shudder as obviously as you do. 

“Can I help you?” you ask, your frown as restrained as you can manage. 

“What is it you’re watching?” She scoots closer as she asks, and you lean away a little. 

“It’s New York One.” You sigh as you turn down the volume to something more bearable. The noise clearly didn’t bother Feferi, and it’s starting to hurt your ears. “It’s a news channel, just for the area.” 

“They didn’t let me watch the news, back in the compound. They had tons of movies I could watch, though, so at least I didn’t get too bored with the selection.” She’s kicking her feet the way a bored child does, and it’s only your quick reflexes that save your bowl of cereal as one of her feet connects with the underside of the coffee table, upending it rather violently. The basket of remotes clatters out onto the floor, followed by the heavy slap of Rose’s tall stack of New York Magazine issues. 

The other troll slides off the couch and onto her knees immediately, righting the coffee table a little too easily. “I’ll fix it! I’ll fix it!” she keeps repeating, and as she leans down to pick up the magazines her long horns almost clip your face. She doesn’t notice that particular transgression, or at least pretends not to, though, and you just roll your eyes and try to keep well back. When she gets the table back together it’s a sloppy mess, but the way she beams at you tells you she’s waiting for some kind of reward, a proverbial pat of the head. 

“Thank you,” you say slowly, face almost twitching from the effort it takes to keep it still, and you tug the coffee table a little closer so you can neaten it up. 

“Rose said I should try not to make you mad.” Feferi retakes her seat on the couch, watching as you place your bowl back on the table and re-stack the piles of magazines. 

“Did she now?” As pleasant a surprise as you find that, you can’t help but be a little pissed, too. Sure, Rose gave at least that much thought to the fact that you might not love living with a homicidal sea troll with the conscience of a wriggler, but she could have stood to think it _all_ the way through. As in, to the obvious conclusion that this would not be your favorite idea at all. Ever. If she had, then you definitely wouldn’t have Feferi and her ratty Adidas swimsuit and board shorts trying to arrange her webbed feet on your furniture. 

“Is that all you have?” you ask as you indicate her outfit with your spoon and take another bite of cereal. It’s not that you expected the Bureau to provide Feferi with Dior, but you’d expected at least a T-shirt and jeans, some third-rate K-Mart outfit that would never fit her right. Something resembling actual clothes, maybe, before fostering her off to their new favorite employees. 

“I lived in a fish tank,” she replies, rather more dryly than you imagined her capable of. “This was pretty much all I needed.” Feferi points to a little pink duffel bag dropped by the door. “I have more in there, though.” 

“More clothes?” You wonder what she’s got packed in there that she would still choose to come here in swimwear. 

“More swimsuits,” she clarifies, and flashes you another shudder-inducing grin. 

You take measurements with your eyes as Rose enters the room, a plate of scrambled eggs and buttered toast in hand. (That explains where she’s been for this whole back-and-forth, at least.) Feferi’s got at least six inches on you, and and her hips are narrower than yours, her shoulders broader. “Curves” are not a word you would use to describe her body. You think you might have something that will fit her, though, and you finish off your cereal as you stand up. “Come on,” you say, beckoning her with one hand and putting down your bowl with the other. “I think we can fix your sartorial situation.” 

“Well, I’m glad to see you getting along,” Rose says, as if you’re her cat and Feferi’s a new kitten she’s brought home; you write yourself a little mental memo to kick her for that later, but for now you settle for glaring at her. She grimaces in embarrassment and turns her focus back to the TV. Feferi doesn’t see that, just hears Rose, and grins like this is all going really well as she follows you toward the bedroom. 

You make her sit down on the bed as you rifle through your dresser. You produce for her a black knit top with dolman sleeves and a cutout back, and a pair of pull-on jeans that have always fit you a bit too tightly in the hips. You personally prefer that top with ponte pants, but you’re not about to hand off a pair of those to this virtual stranger you’ve been forced to take into your home. 

Feferi stares at the items in her lap as you head toward the door. “What do you want me to do with these?” 

That’s a lot denser than you expected. “Wear them? I figured it would be nicer and more comfortable than slumming around in swimwear.” You pause in the doorway, waiting for some kind of signal that she understands this basic concept. 

“I’m comfortable the way I am,” she replies, tossing the garments over her shoulder onto the rest of the bed. The top goes particularly far and slides off onto the floor; she makes no effort to retrieve it. 

“Well, fine,” you say, trying not to pout. “But, if we go out, please put those on?” You look down at her feet, similarly cheaply attired in foam flip flops. “We’ll do something about your shoes, too.” 

“Whatever.” Feferi flops back onto the bed, arms spread wide, and you sneer before flouncing back into the living room. 

“So, any luck with the Princess?” Rose wants to know as you drop yourself on the couch. 

“Don’t get cute with me,” you snap. She hunches up with a properly sheepish look, and you’re not even sorry. “You didn’t ask me at all if I was okay with this before bringing her home.” 

“I’m sorry, it was just all really last-minute, and she had nowhere else to go—”

“Please! The Bureau would have found _somewhere_ to put her,” you snort. 

“Not somewhere she would have been happy,” she says quietly, and that tears it. 

“Oh, somewhere _she_ would have been happy? What about me, Rose? What about my happiness?” You jab your index finger into your collar bone, scowling. “Trolls aren’t pets. You can’t just adopt a whole bunch of us and hope we can get used to each others’ scents.” 

“Kanaya! That’s not—I don’t think like that!” You can see her frustration in her whole body as she turns toward you. 

“Anymore,” you retort, pointing your chin at her as you arch your brows. And now look, Rose is starting to cry, although you can tell she definitely didn’t mean to. She’s not the type to ever cry in front of others. You sigh heavily, and reach out long arms to pull her close. “Rose, don’t cry.” 

“Crying? Who’s crying? I’m as watertight as the Hoover Dam,” she sniffs as you caress her hair. “I’ve just got something in my eye.” 

“I thought you were better than those kinds of clichés,” you say with a little smile. 

“I’m not getting paid to be prosaic in my pajamas. I save it for the page, obviously,” she says, relaxing against you. You stay like that for a few more quiet minutes, and then she says, “I’m very sorry, Kanaya.” 

“I know. You were just trying to help, I know.” Rose’s generosity is usually one of your favorite traits of hers. It’s just unfortunate how it manifested this time around. 

“I’m trying not to act like some holier-than-thou savior to the troll race, I really am,” she tells your shoulder. “If you really want, we can try to arrange something with the Bureau, find her some place to be...” 

You glance at the bedroom door. “No, that stupid fish troll has no idea how to exist in polite society.” Another sigh as your hand runs down the back of her hair and along her shoulders. “She can stay, for now.” 

“I’ll keep her in line, I promise,” Rose says with a little laugh, and you respond in kind. You turn the TV off and spend the next hour alone reading together, though you wonder (and worry) what Feferi’s up to in the bedroom. After the hour is up she comes out, wearing the clothes you provided and looking all the more disheveled for it. You realize she must have had a hard time getting into them alone with her horns, the low ceiling, and all that hair besides (not to mention the lack of a tag in the top that would tell her which was was front), and you try not to laugh. 

Unfortunately, after the first day of living with Feferi, you discover it only gets worse. You come home from work to find the kitchen a mess, the living room trashed, and the bathroom flooded; there’s almost always something broken. Rose apologizes for every infraction and Feferi makes no effort to do the same. There are long scratches all over the ceiling. Feferi hogs the bathroom when you’ve made it clear than it’s more important that you and Rose make it to work—Rose is back in the main office with you—and it takes nothing less than actually busting into the bathroom and pushing her bodily to get her out of there. 

You feel like all of this is bearable, though, until the day you come home to find Feferi playing around in your wardrobe. 

It feels like you’ve just walked in on a murder crime scene. There are holes and tears put through a large handful of your tops, strewn about on the floor like so many carcasses. Two pairs of pants lie next to them, the belt loops torn off. A few more skirts are next to that, and you almost wonder how she could destroy those before finding the invisible zippers literally torn out. 

And Feferi? Feferi is standing in the empty shell of your closet, ankle-deep in clothes that have been dumped to the floor and wrestling on your favorite dress of all time. Her ribcage is too broad for it, straining the side zipper as she tries clumsily to yank it up despite strands of her coarse hair getting caught in it. And before you can say anything, she growls in frustration and just shoves it off her body, the zipper pull flying off into oblivion as she drops it around her feet. 

“Kanaya, your clothes are all so _stupid_ ,” she whines at you as you stare at the dress, as if she hadn’t just ripped your still-beating heart from your chest. “I can’t get anything to fit around my horns and just _on_ , and everything is like it’s made out of paper!” She kicks aside the dress like so much garbage as she steps out of it, her mess of hair only half-covering her nudity, though that doesn’t distress you nearly as much as the clothing situation right now. Feferi ducks out of the closet, and of course, there are holes in the ceiling of your closet when you look. In fact, you’re pretty sure if you took a flashlight, you’d be able to see up into Javier’s closet through those holes. 

“I thought you were comfortable in your swimsuits?” is all you can manage, your mouth dry. 

“Well, yeah, but I remembered what you said about wearing nicer things, so I thought I’d, you know, see what that was about.” You look away as she bends over the bed, hunting for her swimsuit; instead you kneel down and pick up your favorite dress. Upon inspection, you discover that it’s worse than you thought. It’s not just that the zipper pull was popped off—she literally shredded the georgette around the zipper. There’s no repairing this without replacing the entire panel of fabric. 

You shriek. 

“What’s wrong?” Feferi wants to know as you clutch the broken dress in bloodless fingers. “Did I break it? Rose said you were really good at sewing and could fix anything.” 

“This was a _Moschino!”_ you howl. “It was _silk!_ I can’t afford to fix this, you— _aaaaaaghhh!”_ With the dress beyond repair, you put your face right into it as you cry. 

“It was just a dress, calm down,” Feferi says as she finishes pulling on her suit and sits on the bed. “Rose said you can make even better than that!” 

“ _Just_ a dress—” You feel lightheaded. The front door slams in the living room, and in a moment Rose is running into the bedroom, coat and all. 

“What’s—?” She doesn’t need to ask any more, taking in the textile carnage around the room and you with your tearstained face in the middle of it. “What happened here?” 

Before you can answer, Feferi is. “I was just trying on some of Kanaya’s clothes, and she got mad at me!” 

“You _what?!”_ You rise to your feet, Moschino still in hand. “You destroyed my wardrobe! You didn’t even ask! If you’d waited, I would have probably said yes, and helped you instead of having you break everything!” 

“Can’t you fix it?” 

What stings is that the question doesn’t come from Feferi. It comes from Rose, an innocent look on her face as you turn to stare at her. 

“It’s silk georgette, Rose, and she _tore_ it. Not to mention she destroyed half my clothes—when am I supposed to have time to fix these?” You shake the dress at her. 

“Well, I can help to buy new—”

“No! _No!_ Feferi is not a puppy, Rose, this is not like a dog chewing on a pair of Jimmy Choos! I just—I can’t take this anymore!” You press the heel of one hand into your eye, trying to stem the flow of tears. “I’m leaving.” 

“Leaving? Wait, Kanaya, wait!” Rose follows you as you storm out of the bedroom. “Kanaya, wait!” 

You pause, turning to hug your matesprit. Girlfriend. Whatever she is. “Rose,” you say as you hold her face by the chin in a delicate grip, “I love you, dearly. But I can’t deal with this. With _her_. I’m just going to Jade’s, okay?” 

You don’t think you’ve ever seen her look so upset, and she takes your hand in both of hers to kiss your fingers. “Okay,” she finally says in a small voice. “Text me?” 

“I will.” You kiss her forehead in return. 

To her credit, Feferi has gone off to sulk in the kitchen, and Rose sits quietly on the bed as you pack your carry-on. You don’t expect to be gone for long, and you’ll be going to work most days, but you always over-pack in case you need an outfit for an unplanned event. You text Jade as you pack, and she’s slow in responding, but she’s fine with you coming over. 

Rose’s goodbye kiss is kind of desperate and sad, and she pulls you close again the first time you head for the door, but she lets you go the second time and locks the door behind you.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which feferi starts to understand the world she now lives in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW okay work has been kicking my ass all over the place, but i've been able to get handwriting in here and there while at work so tonight on my one night off i transcribed all that, finished up the chapter and here it is
> 
> i hope it's not terrible

“I don’t know what her problem is.” Rose is making you pick up the mess you made in the bedroom, and sits on the bed supervising you. “I was only trying to do what she wanted!” 

“Well, you did break a ton of her clothes,” she points out dryly. “And Kanaya is nothing if enormously protective of her wardrobe.” 

“She can fix it, though, you told me she could!” 

Rose sighs as you add another broken garment to the IKEA bag in the middle of the floor. “She doesn’t have time to fix all of them, though, nor should she have to. That’s why,” she says, flapping a hand at the blue bag, “I’m going to pony up to get these all fixed at the tailor’s if they can be repaired at all. She deserves that much.” 

“So when is she coming back?” You hang up something slippery, and it’s only Rose’s watchful eye that keeps you from shredding it in frustration when it keeps falling off. 

“I don’t know.” She goes quiet when she says it, pulling her legs up onto the bed. “She said she’d be in contact, at least, so that’s something. She’s going to Jade’s.” 

“I don’t know who that is.” You kick at a stray blouse and earn yourself a cleared throat and a glare from Rose. 

“Jade is an old friend. She helped Gamzee escape, although I don’t think you met her.” Rose picks at the cuffs of the sweater she’s pulled on, what with the heat not quite on yet. 

“Gamzee was the tall one in the living room, right?” You raise your hand up in the air, palm parallel to the floor. “With the ugly face.” 

“I wouldn’t say he has an ugly face,” she says, leaning back on stiff arms. “Don’t say that in front of him or Dave, or probably Tavros, either, if you want to stay out of trouble.” 

“I don’t know who Tavros is, either.” With most of the closet put back together, you’re inclined to give up and go do something fun, but you know Rose won’t let you. “You keep talking about all these people I’ve never met. I know Dave is, your brother? Right?” Rose nods. “And I guess Gamzee is his... matesprit?” 

“Kismesis, actually,” she says with a snort. “I have to say, I’m surprised you know this much about your own culture, given how you were raised.” 

“I might be cut off from my culture, okay, yes, but I did _listen_ to the mold—” You just barely catch yourself. “The greenbloods, when they gossiped near my tank. I guess they figured it’s not like I’d be able to tell anyone they were talking about...” You hang up the last pair of pants, and go about collecting the stray hangers that got left on the floor. 

“I’m glad you didn’t drop any of that ‘moldblood’ nonsense near Kanaya or I might be single,” Rose says with a little smirk. “I’m also glad you’re learning to drop it. I assume, anyway.” 

“I’m trying,” is all you can give her. 

What you hate the most about this place is the ceilings. Your horns scrape against them if you don’t hunch down, which jars your teeth, but keeping down low enough makes your back and neck ache. You make your distress known to Rose, and she gives you a short massage, but she’s not strong enough to really work out the knots accumulating there. 

As you lie awake that night, horns hanging off the top end of the air mattress you’ve been given to sleep on, you worry. You worry about yourself, mostly, and not just because you feel like you’re living in a cage already. As much as you try to trust Rose, whenever you glance toward the window all you can imagine is a teeming mass of underprivileged trolls who, for reasons that have never been clarified, are waiting to tear you apart. 

You know it’s stupid. Rose is smarter than any human you’ve ever met, and so far she’s never been wrong. But for years—sweeps? you’re still not sure what that means—Dualscar has convinced you that you are persona non grata in the public troll eye, and it’s hard to shake that, even once you recognize it for the brainwashing it is. 

As for Dualscar, you still don’t know where he is. Rose seems eternally busy when she’s actually home, so there’s just never a chance to ask. The last time you actually got an answer about him, all you were told was that his home was empty when they looked for him. So this time, you decide to do something about it; no more worrying in the dark. You slide off the air mattress carefully and creep into Rose’s room. 

What you find is Rose confining herself to only one side of the queen size bed, one arm slung over the pillows on the other side. It gives you pause, definitely; you know this is your fault, no matter how many times you tell yourself that Kanaya overreacted, that she was being petty or even lazy. The fact of the matter is that it was your actions that made Kanaya leave. 

But you still need answers. 

“Rose,” you whisper loudly, before wondering why you’re whispering when you’re trying to wake her up. “Rose!” This time you yell it, coming over to her bedside to give her shoulder a shake, but before you make it there she jerks awake. 

“Feferi, I have work in the morning,” she groans, twisting to face you in bed. “What could be so important that you had to wake me up at —” she scrabbles for her phone in the dark with her inferior human vision, and you pass it to her “—three in the morning? Ugh...”

“You _have_ to tell me what happened to Dualscar.” Your hand finds hers in the darkness, squeezing as gently as you can manage. Your features are set in your best approximation of stoic-ness, even though you know she can’t see your face just yet. 

“Later, please, Feferi, I’m so tired...” Rose flips onto her stomach, ignoring you as she sighs into her pillow. “Tomorrow, after I get home from work.” 

“But you’re always tired after work,” you protest with a frown. 

“I promise, I do, I promise this time,” she mumbles, already half-asleep again. “Just, let me—”

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” you interrupt, voice soft. 

That wakes Rose up. She sits up in bed, sliding her hand out of yours only to tke hold of both your hands. “I promise you right now, he’s not dead.” 

“Then tell me where he is, at least!” You give your arms a shake, which makes both your hands flop in Rose’s lap. “Rose, come on!”

She hesitates at first, and then frees one hand to turn on the bedside lamp. “Feferi, do you remember why they brought me in to start talking to you?” 

“Not really?” you say with a frown. “What does that have to do with it?”

“Oh, honey,” she sighs, which fills you with dead. “They didn’t like how you turned out after letting Dualscar see you for all these years, so they... They took him.” She looks away with a grimace. 

“They who, they the Bureau? Took him where?” you demand to know. 

“I don’t know, exactly, besides another hidden facility somewhere. He’s probably still in the tri-state area.” You don’t even notice at first the soothing circles she rubs into your hands with her thumbs. “Please try not to worry.” 

“I just—I don’t understand. What was wrong? What didn’t they like?” You worry at your lower lip, your own thick skin your only defense against your needly teeth. 

“They thought he was trying to groom you for some kind of troll uprising, from what I’ve gathered,” she says. Before you can interject with how ridiculous you think that is, she continues, “A lot of people have gotten fired over this, including my su—” She clears her throat, blinking rapidly as she shakes her head. “Including my former superior. Alma.” 

Your eyes widen. “Alma got fired?” 

“It isn’t fair,” Rose says with a nod. 

“That’s an understatement,” you snort. “That’s just so stupid! None of any of this was her fault!” 

“She’s the one who authorized all of Dualscar’s visits for the past five years, though. Everyone else who was ever in charge of that has also been fired, or had their pensions cut.” She gives you a defeated shrug. “I only escaped all that because I marked the end of Dualscar’s visits.” 

For a few minutes you both sit in silence, while you slowly lean forward toward her shoulder. She ends up sort of gathering you to her chest as you turn around, horns carefully arranged along the length of the bed, and she massages around the base of your horns, which makes you breathe slow and even. 

“You still haven’t told me what it is they’re doing with him,” you murmur as you press up into her touch like a cat. 

“Nothing bad, Feferi, I’m sure,” she says, which is probably the least reassuring thing she could have said. She can’t see your anxious expression, though, so the moment passes, and you just let yourself relax back into the head massage. 

“Do you want to sleep here tonight?” Rose asks, quietly enough that you don’t hear her at first. You nod with care, mindful of your horns, but then you feel her sliding out from behind you. At first you think she’s just trying to get more comfortable, but no, she’s hopping off the bed, heading toward the door. 

“Where are you going?” you ask, because maybe the answer is getting more pillows or something. 

“To the air mattress. I thought you might like to spread out on the bed,” she says, a hand on the door. “Why, what’s wrong?” 

“I know my horns are in the way, but...” You scoot over to the side Rose hadn’t been sleeping on. 

There’s a flash of emotion over Rose’s face that you can’t really name, as she swings the door gently between her palms—and then she does rejoin you. It’s awkward, for sure, your long horns angled off the side of the bed, but she seems to silently understand what you need right now, and she drapes her arm over your waist. It doesn’t take you long to fall asleep after that. 

In the morning Rose has gone to work long before you wake up, and you have a crick in your neck from the position in which your horns have forced you to spend the night. You miss falling asleep underwater, floating gently in the artificial ebb and flow of your aquarium. 

You rise to stretch and find that one outfit Kanaya put together for you, which Rose said you couldn’t just keep wearing over and over before washing it last night. She put your hair in a huge braid last night, too, and you try to pile this on top of your head at least five times before you conclude it’s just too heavy and let it whack you in the ass. You’re still in a pretty good mood though, until—

“Who the hell are you?” you demand as you storm into the living room. There’s a troll with curling horns sitting on the couch, eating a huge bag of tortilla chips that’s nestled in her crossed legs. The TV is on, albeit low enough to not be heard in the bedroom. She’s smaller than you in most ways, but kind of pudgy with thick legs, and her hair is close in texture to Rose’s. 

“Hanging out here today, is who,” she says as she pops another chip. “Also, Aradia.” 

“I don’t really care,” you snap, and she just shrugs. “Does Rose know you broke into her apartment?” 

Aradia dangles a key at you. “Rose called me this morning and asked me if I could come over for a while, while she’s at work. I had the day off and she said you shouldn’t be alone right now, so here I am.” 

“So you’re what, my babysitter?” you sneer, arms crossing. “I don’t need this.” 

“Let’s talk about your feelings,” Aradia says, and it’s so sudden and said so frankly you can’t tell if she’s mocking you or not. 

You get ready to shout something back, when you finally look her in the eye and spot her blood color. It’s a deep, crimson red—she’s a rustblood. You smirk; you don’t have to take her shit for a second. 

“You’re just a _rustblood,”_ you spit, the words like a bullet flying from behind the trigger of your teeth. 

But she just shrugs, a blank look on her face. “Is that supposed to hurt my feelings?” 

You’re flabbergasted enough that you don’t catch yourself nodding until it’s too late. 

“I might be a rustblood, but at least my blood color is on the known hemospectrum,” she says with a smile so harmless it actually scares you a little. “Weren’t you grown in a test tube?” 

“No,” you reply with a scowl, hunching up into yourself and stalking off to the kitchen. 

“I think you were,” she says as she unfolds herself and follows you. “That’s okay, you know! You’re just different.” 

“I was the one they got right,” you sniff, and Aradia just gives you a puzzled look. 

“Come on, that wasn’t meant to insult you,” Aradia says with a tug on your elbow. “I’m sorry, you’re not a mutant.” 

“Who said I was!” you shriek, tearing away and hurrying right back to the living room. 

“Okay, let’s just calm down and have a seat. How about that?” She retakes her place on the couch, fast little hands whipping bobby pins from her pocket and into her hair to hold it away form her left horn. She reaches into her purse next to her, and puls out an oblong little case; in your curiosity you sit down next to her in the corner of the couch. 

“What’s that?” you ask as she opens it, revealing a glittery flat stick. 

“A crystal file,” she says as she places the empty case aside. You flinch when she puts it to the tip of her horn and rasps over it. “It doesn’t hurt, I just have to do this for work,” she explains as she carries on filing. “I don’t know why you’re flinching, I thought you’d know yourself it’s just dead keratin.” 

“No one’s ever tried to saw at my horns, so that would be why,” you snort. “Why do you have to do that?” 

“I just have to keep them blunt for safety reasons at the hospital I work at,” she says. “Can you turn the volume up for me, Miss Feferi?” 

Instead of doing what you’ve been asked, you snatch up the remote and change the channel. She says some mild word of protest and you start channel-surfing, until you hear the word _troll_. 

“—troll education within the districts be more closely regulated?” a white woman is asking, and when you demand to know who that is Aradia says her name is Barbara Walters. 

“I don’t know how comfortable I feel about telling them one more way they have to suppress their own culture,” a brown woman—whom Aradia says is named Whoopi Goldberg—says, shaking her head. “It feels too invasive, to me.” 

“But,” another white woman says, whom you can only tell apart from the first by their different clothing, “didn’t they try to invade us first?” And the audience breaks out into tumultuous applause. 

“Nobody asked your opinion, Joy Behar,” Aradia says with a scowl. “Why did you put _this_ on?” 

“I heard the word ‘troll’ and I wanted to see what humans say about us,” you say, leaving out the part about thinking they might talk about you. 

“Fair enough,” she sighs, and gestures toward the screen. “There you go. Humans just see us as something to be ‘regulated’.” She makes air quotes with her fingers. “Here, look, they’re doing it again.” 

And they are. “Well, surely it’s not invasive to suggest some more regulation of their horns!” Joy Behar is saying, hands sweeping wide. 

“Okay, yes, that I can agree with,” Whoopi Goldberg says. “Whatever they do in their districts, fine, whatever, I personally don’t care. But! But!” she continues, holding up a hand to keep someone else from interrupting, “But when I’m walking down the street I don’t wanna get clipped by some oblivious jerk with steer horns!” The audience applauds again, and Aradia rolls her eyes. 

“I say,” says Barbara Walters, driving her index finger into the table top, “if you want to live in our society, you should pay the proper toll. I don’t mind paying a few dollars more in taxes if horn reductions become mandatory for trolls leaving the districts!” The applause is so thunderous nobody on stage can even be heard anymore. 

Aradia manages to grab the remote and just turn the TV off completely, but the damage is done. One of your hands has already slid up onto one of your horns, and you sink down into the couch, trying to understand the fear that rises in your belly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> remember vriska???????? yeah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you bobie and edoro for helping me work out what was so horribly wrong with my rough draft! you guys made this chapter not suck immensely

“So she finally drove you away, did she?” Vriska asks with a smirk as she stands aside to let you into her apartment. “It only took forever.” 

“She did no such thing,” you sniff, dropping your luggage next to the obnoxiously red couch with a pronounced flick of your hands. “I just needed to get out of that apartment for a little while.” 

“But there _is_ trouble in paradise, is what I’m hearing,” she says, locking the door before following you into her fairly cramped apartment. It’s chock full of tchotchkes, although most notably Vriska’s bizarre collection of trophies that don’t belong to her, collected over the years from antique and junk shops and the occasional thrift store. The one time you asked about it, she said something weird about the only thing better than a trophy was a trophy you didn’t have to work for—let some other chump do the work. 

“I didn’t say that either.” You heave a sigh as you both flop back onto the cushions. “Trust me, it definitely wasn’t Rose.” You clear your throat. “A little water, maybe?” 

“You’re so demanding,” she says with a roll of the eyes, but she gets up anyway, broad-shouldered frame disappearing down the hall. 

Most people would advise against confiding in Vriska Serket, and most people would be right—there’s no such thing as “confidentiality” within the Serket walls. She’s bound to tell _somebody_ , although she’s run so many people off it’s hard to think of whom she might tell besides Equius, her old nurserymate that she so often torments with her company back in the district. 

But you have to admit to yourself, as she returns with a glass of cloudy water and a can of red Mountain Dew, which she cracks open as soon as she passes you the slowly clearing water, you do enjoy the gossip. It’s a different grapevine entirely from talking smack with Rose, more comfortably trollish. When you were young and districtbound up in Michigan, you met Vriska online and ended up harboring a bright red crush on her with her angular face and bushy hair (back then, anyway—she favors a straight iron now). She’s the secret reason you moved out to New York in the first place. The Serket Reason, which you keep to yourself nowadays. 

“So if it’s not flushed troubles, what’s the issue?” Vriska wants to know, taking a long sip before she takes her therapist pose, legs crossed and head braced against her fingers. “Did she touch your precious frocks the wrong way? You gotta tell me _something_ here, I’m getting sick of guessing!” 

“I’ll tell you when I feel like it,” you say with a dainty sip of your own. “If I feel like it.” 

“Boring as usual!” she says with an exaggerated shrug. “God, what _can_ I ask you about?” 

“I didn’t say you couldn’t ask me about anything at all,” you reply as you put your glass down. “Suffice to say we have a new tenant, and she can’t abide by a few simple rules.” 

“Ooh?” Vriska’s whole face lights up. 

“She’s a mutant, as far as I can tell, and her name is Feferi. I got a look at her eyes, and they’re, I don’t know, pink?” You gesture toward your own eyes, upper lip tugging up to bare your teeth. 

“Like the Condesce, then,” Vriska says, and purses her lips. “That’s not a mutation, Kanaya, that’s the legitimate top of the hemospectrum! Honestly, I thought you were intelligent.” 

“Her Imperial Condescension,” you reply with a full-on sneer, “was a mutant who made a grab for power and succeeded in ruling over Alternia with an oppressive, iron fist. I don’t know where you got your ideas from, but they’re ridiculous.” 

“She had heiresses!” Vriska exclaims, throwing her hands up. “Why would a ‘mutation’ happen so often if it wasn’t part of the hemospectrum?” 

“There’s no evidence of all these heiresses besides the word of Dualscar and the Grand highblood, and we know whose side they were on,” you snort. 

“And Mindfang’s!” she retorts. It’s funny to you sometimes that her pride would never let her admit how easy she is to rile up.

“Please, Vriska, she was a pirate.” You leave it at that, considering Vriska’s connection to the old—and very much assassinated—Marquise. 

“Well, I’m _sorry_ you’re so ignorant of the truth,” she huffs, shifting to pull herself into a little offended ball of troll in the corner of the couch. 

“And I’m sorry you’ve had the misfortune to grow up on hyena rhetoric in NA5,” you return with a prim mouth and sarcastic little flutter of your lashes. “Where am I sleeping?” 

“Don’t worry, you’re not sleeping on the loveseat,” she says out of the side of her mouth before sitting up a little bit. “My bed’s pretty big.” You try not to make a face at the idea; you’re pretty sure you’ve heard from other sources (Tavros, actually) that Vriska sprawls across the bed. But it’s a better option than Jade’s place right now, which is basically a collection of rooms with furniture under a thick layer of white dog hair. And Bec seemed to find your belongings _very_ interesting. 

For the rest of the night Vriska bores you to tears with her love of talking shit. It’s like she’s going down a mental list of every troll you might both know. First it’s Aradia that she can’t stand— “She’s so short and dumpy, and she hangs out with all these losers like her stupid wimpy moirail, when I’m _way_ sure she’s immensely better than that!” —which leads to Vriska’s opinions on the aforementioned moirail. 

“God, you know, I _did_ get him in bed once,” she says as she dips a finger quickly into her soup pot and sucks it clean. “That’s coming along. But no, I convinced him to sleep with me just the once, and let me tell you—”

“I can only guess,” you say dryly, expecting a stream of insults. 

“—He was just so _bad_ at sex!” she finishes, not disappointing in the least. “See, I know he and Rose’s brother have hooked up, right? And so, _my_ theory is that humans are used to such subpar sex that,” and she bends to one side to flick the stove off, “even mediocre sex with a pathetic troll is like, mindblowing. Which is why I am totally on the hunt for a human who doesn’t suck, because I think I could take it from just plain old mindblowing to mind- _erasing_ , you follow?”

“Oh, sure, I follow that you’re bitter about Tavros rejecting you _years_ after the fact that you want to pretend you had no fault in it,” you laugh. “You shouldn’t feel bad, you know, he rejected Gamzee, too! And you managed to be the one who _didn’t_ almost kill him, so congratulate yourself on that one.” 

“Please,” she sneers, reaching for soup bowls, and you just chuckle a little more. “I’m just saying humans are inherently better partners because they’re, you know. Appreciative!” She doles out a few ladlefuls of soup into each dish. “I’m sure you can agree after being in a red quadrant with Rose for all this time.” You accept the bowl Vriska offers as she pulls out the other seat and sits catty-corner to you. 

“I love Rose because she’s Rose, not because I have some human fetish,” you inform her as you eat a spoonful. “Your cooking is vastly improved from the last time I ate at Chez Serket, though.” 

“All the better to snare a human,” she says with a wide grin. You roll your eyes, but Vriska seems placated enough and you both settle into eating your food. 

Vriska _used_ to have an air mattress, but the trouble with trolls like you and her with inflatable objects is the tendency of your hooked horns to puncture them. She has yet to throw out the sad blue carcass, because she’s convinced still works until you show her the big hole on the bottom from which air keeps escaping; she just huffs about it not being that way before and then rolls it up and stuffs it back in the closet anyway. You change into a matched pajama set while Vriska hunts down extra pillows, and come out of the bathroom still drying your washed face. 

“Are those _matching pajamas?”_ Vriska cackles as she gives you the up-and-down. “Jesus, Kanaya, what are you, eighty?” For someone who grew up in NA5, Vriska doesn’t like to think in sweeps, but you’re pretty sure what that’s about, especially after what she’s told you today. 

“It’s not like they button up the front,” you say with a little pout. The bottoms are a cherry-printed jersey, the top a simple white long-sleeved top with matching trim. “You don’t have any room to judge in... _That.”_ You gesture at her sleepwear, which is the rattiest white tank top you’ve ever seen, sweat stains and all, and a pair of panties with one long elastic thread hanging off the side of the waistband. “Don’t you have any pride?” 

“You’re just a Kanaya,” she says with a sardonic glance your way, trying to find the top corners of the duvet. You sigh and locate them immediately, which she claims she was about to find anyway. “I don’t have anything to prove to you.” 

“Fine, if you want to look like a dirty little grub, that’s your prerogative.” You take a seat on the bed, sliding one leg under the covers. “Just keep to your side of the bed. Tavros told me you sprawl.” 

“Oh, please! Like he doesn’t take up more than his share of any bed with those stupid fucking horns of his!” You’re just about done tucking your lower half in when Vriska throws the majority of the covers to the side, whacking you in the face and undoing your work. She ignores the way you glare at her. “I’m really tired of always being the bad guy, you know! He’s not some rustblood angel!” 

“I didn’t say any of that,” you say with raised brows. “You’re a very sweet girl, Vriska, who wouldn’t harm a fly.” 

She throws a pillow at your face. 

Tavros _was_ right, though, and half an hour later, despite the king size bed that takes up most of the floor space in Vriska’s bedroom, you find yourself huddled close to the edge of the mattress with Vriska spread eagle next to you. You wait for her to maybe just move, remember there’s another troll in the stupid bed—and you hear her snoring. 

“Vriska,” you grumble, sitting up to grab her arm and throw it over her waist. You lean forward and shove her leg over, too, and then flop back down to get more comfortable in the newly freed space. You’re almost asleep ten minutes later, when you feel an arm snaking across your waist, and you almost sit up again to rearrange your host again, when Vriska speaks. 

“I know you used to like me,” she murmurs, and her voice is sleep-husky near the side of your face. “Flushed, wasn’t it?” Her broad chest is pressed against your back, one leg sliding up against the back of yours. 

“That was in the past,” you say, reaching to move Vriska’s hand from the front of your waist, but she pulls it back to the side instead before you get there. 

“I bet that’s why you came here, isn’t it?” That one leg is wrapping around yours, now. There’s no denying that Vriska is very attractive, although from what you understand that’s more by troll standards than human ones; a part of you is incredibly turned on, wants to turn around and press your body against Vriska’s. 

“I’m with Rose in that quadrant,” you say with a dry mouth. “Go to sleep, Vriska.” 

“No red infidelity for you, huh? Good girl,” she chuckles, but she doesn’t disengage. “You wanna try a little pitch fun, then?” 

_That_ makes you sit up, pulling away from her embrace. “Vriska, that is _not_ how that works,” you say with a confused frown. 

“Says who! Plenty of people vacillate all the time!” she whines, propping herself up on her elbows. “Since when are you such a stickler for some irrelevant rules made by decrepit old aliens?” 

“I’m not saying people don’t vacillate, I’m just saying I don’t think you’re being sincere in your propositions, here,” you say as you draw a knee up and use it for your elbow to brace your face against your knuckles. 

“Well fucking sue me, then! I’m lonely!” she snaps. “I just—you don’t know what it’s fucking like, Maryam! All I want is for someone to—to _give_ a shit about me! Ugh!” Vriska flops back down, pulling a pillow over her face to groan into it. 

You sigh, pulling the pillow away, and she glares up at you. “Well, yes, you’re right, I _did_ used to have a big flush crush on you, Vriska, but at the time you were two busy trying to get Tavros into, what was it, two quadrants at the same time? And haranguing him for rejecting you for both?” 

“Oh, look, somebody’s got a memory gland,” she says, the words drowning in sarcasm. “Hooray for the show off!” 

“You wouldn’t like blackrom with me anyhow,” you tell her, putting the pillow aside. 

“Try me,” she says with a challenging jut of her chin, but you just shake your head and lie back down. 

“You can still hug me, if you want,” you offer as you settle back into the covers. “Just, you know, no nonsense.” 

“Yeah, we’ll see what you say about it tomorrow,” she retorts, but she’s pressing behind you gently almost immediately, and this time you just cover her hand with yours. And before you fall asleep, you’re pretty sure you hear a mumbled thanks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just, i hope this chapter wasn't too 8oring to anyone?? just, i felt you guys needed a little cushion before the next chapter ok, so, please comment with your feelings and emotions


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> how to make a rose lalonde in a few uneasy steps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay please please please mind the new tags on this one okay please???? 
> 
> bonus points if you see the connection to a previous nukestuck fic

When your brother arrives, he’s got Tavros in tow, who has to sort of sidle and duck through the door. You’re thankful your ceiling can at least handle _his_ massive horns. They stick to each other’s sides as they come in, and you can’t help but laugh a little bit. 

“Wasn’t it just a few years ago you were calling me weird for wanting to get involved with trolls?” you say as you head toward the kitchen, Dave detaching himself from Tavros to trail after you. “And now you’re making up your own quadrants.” 

“Hey, look, I’m just going along with whatever they want,” he says while you pull a bottle of Ziegler’s from the fridge. “These are the things a man will do for maximum troll ass.” He grabs the cider to pour himself the tallest glass you have in your cabinet. “They almost had me convinced it was a real, traditional, Alternian quadrant until I remembered the real fourth quadrant, the assholes. But, whatever.” Dave shrugs. “Neither of them get jealous, since they’re in different, regular quadrants with me, and I sure as shit don’t get jealous considering for now I’m not supposed to leave them alone together.” 

“I’m just not going to try to understand how any of you came up with this,” you say with a dismissive wave of your hand as you pour yourself a glass of water. “It’s just good you’re happy.” 

“Shit yeah,” he snorts into his cider with a glance your way. 

You both fall quiet for just a bit, nursing your beverages without looking at each other. 

“You don’t visit like how you used to,” he tells his drink. “Since Gamzee came back.” 

“I’ve been busy,” you tell yours. “And I thought you might want to be alone with him.” 

“Bullshit.” Dave looks up when you do, and the way he grinds his jaw means, in your long experience, that he wants to tell you something. And he doesn’t. 

You try not to feel bitter about the way he doesn’t confide in you like he used to. 

“Is Gamzee still on lockdown?” you ask, mostly to change the subject. 

“Yeah, he’s still in phase one of the sixty day period, so he can’t leave the damn apartment,” he replies with a little sigh. “He’s okay, though, I set him up with our old N64 and fucking, Conker’s Bad Fur Day, you remember that shit?” 

“I can’t believe you have that! I thought Dirk took it,” you say with an incredulous little laugh. “Yeah, I remember _you_ wanting that stupid game in middle school, and Dirk actually _buying_ it for you. It was nothing but toilet humor, literally.” 

“You just didn’t appreciate the fine craftsmanship at work there,” he says, touching his thumb and first two fingers together and giving his hand a shake before kissing the tips. “Mwah!” 

“I’m sure that was absolutely the issue at work, and not that by that age I was above poo jokes,” you say with a dry smirk. 

“Anyway, the funniest part of the game now isn’t even like, any of the jokes, it’s watching Gamzee get frustrated because the fucking controller is so weirdly designed and his fucking bear paw hands are too big to hold it right, or comfortably,” Dave snickers. “When he’s stoned he doesn’t even get angry, he just makes this sad whining dog noise and stares at the controller while fucking Wario sits in the middle of Rainbow Road.” 

“I believe it,” you say with a soft chuckle. 

“It’s better in person,” he replies with a steady stare, but you stare back and he ends up being the one looking away. 

“We shouldn’t leave Tavros alone so long,” you say as you move toward the door, bringing a glass of water for Tavros as well. 

“Yeah, well, I’m going for a smoke,” he says under his breath, heading out ahead of you toward your fire escape. “So just gimme a few minutes.” You roll your eyes, and follow him out into the living room as he whacks his cigarette pack against the palm of his hand, but you both pause at the sight you’re met with. 

Feferi and Tavros sit on opposite ends of the couch; both look pretty unsure, although you would add that Tavros also looks a little bit afraid for his life. It’s clear they were talking from the way Tavros has frozen with his mouth open, and Feferi glares at the two of you for interrupting. 

“Whoa, your horns,” Dave says (kind of oafishly in your opinion), which makes him the sole target of Feferi’s ire. She wraps both hands around her horns protectively and hisses at him. Gone are the long candy corn crescents that constantly scraped the ceiling and threatened to puncture it; in their place are two modest little curves of pure dark orange keratin that rise a mere six inches out of her hair (which has also seen a trim, though it still falls past the small of her back). 

“Shut up! Nobody asked your opinion! Go away!” Feferi snarls at him, and she gets up to dodge back into the bedroom. You shake your head as Dave looks at you helplessly; he’s as familiar with the idea of tact as he is with Garth Brooks’ discography. (He is not familiar with Garth Brooks’ discography.) 

“What? She scraped the fuck out of my ceiling the last time I saw her, it was kind of fucking jarring!” he says with a defensive shrug. “It’s not my fault the princess can’t handle a little fucking commentary!” And he stalks off to your fire escape, already pulling out a cigarette. 

That leaves you alone with Tavros, who looks at you anxiously. “May I ask what you were talking about?” you say, turning to look at him properly. 

“Uh, horns, actually, so...” Tavros sighs. “I’ll talk to Dave about it later. He just doesn’t understand certain things...” He pushes off his knees to get up, and heads toward the window, which he doesn’t fit through, so he’s reduced to talking to Dave through it. You pull your mouth tight as you arch your brows, and then head into the bedroom after Feferi. 

You don’t know where she got the idea, but she came to you last week asking if the Bureau could arrange for her to get a horn reduction done, upset and cagey. Because Feferi was still technically attached the Bureau as a project, when you put in her request it was actually approved, the cost covered by the Bureau itself. She still won’t tell you what prompted it, and although her neck has stopped hurting, she seems unhappier than ever. She’s regressed back to unwarranted insults between apologizing for them, and for snapping at you so often. After the first time post-procedure, you can’t convince Aradia to come keep Feferi company anymore, and neither troll will tell you what happened that day. 

“Don’t pay my stupid brother any attention,” you say as you arrange yourself on the bed next to a very sulky Feferi. “He has no tact, and no amount of dating trolls will probably ever change that.” 

“I wish I weren’t a troll,” she tells her knees, glaring past them. “Then nobody would care what size my horns were.” 

“The only opinion of your horns you should care about is your own,” you say. “Do you want me to braid your hair?” 

“Aren’t your brother and his matesprit out there still?” she says with a sullen glance over her shoulder. 

“Dave is smoking, and Tavros followed him to the best of his abilities,” you say with a little wave over your own shoulder. “Don’t worry about them.” You rearrange your legs to sit tailor-style just behind Feferi, and she sighs contentedly as you pick up the brush you bought just for her and start pulling it through her hair. “So what did you talk to Tavros about? I didn’t think you’d be so candid with a warmblood.” 

“I asked him about his big goofy horns.” She hums a little when the brush pulls across her scalp. “And why he didn’t get them reduced.” 

“Oh? And what did he say?” Feferi’s hair has gotten so much more manageable since you introduced the concept of conditioner into her life. 

“Uh, some stuff about not wanting to give up his troll-ness? I didn’t really follow.” You can feel the lie in how her shoulders tense, but you let it go. “Whatever, his life is hard and now mine isn’t. I can go wherever I want.” One hand comes up to touch on the end of one horn, rounded and blunt. “Anytime I want.” 

“Well, I’m glad you’re happy, then,” you say carefully, beginning to divide her hair into three sections. “I was worried you would miss your horns, but you say you don’t, and I believe you.” 

You work in silence for the next fifteen minutes, until you can hear Dave climbing back into your living room, and it always amuses you how Tavros is even louder than your brother despite his shy disposition. Tavros says he’s hungry, doesn’t really make a complaint of it; Dave knows he’s welcome to raid your fridge, and he says as much to placate the troll, before you hear them make their way to your kitchen. 

“I guess you like having your brother around?” Feferi says, which takes you by surprise a bit. 

“Around? Well, yeah, we grew up together, and he’s very dear to me,” you reply with a frown as you start to plait. “Why do you ask?” 

“It was just a question!” she snaps, which makes you roll your eyes. 

“There’s no such thing as ‘just a question’ with you, don’t give me that.” Some strands are escaping you now, and you reach forward past one fin to recapture them. “Do you not want Dave coming around anymore?” 

“No, I don’t care about _that_ , his opinion is stupid and I’m not worried about it,” she grouses. “Just...” She gathers her long legs onto the bed, fingers kneading anxiously at her ankles. “I miss having family.” 

“I’m your family now,” you say kind of automatically, before flinching; good _Lord_ that was corny. “I mean, just—look, Feferi—”

“It’s not like it was with Dualscar,” Feferi says. “I know he was lying to me but, I miss him, okay? I mean, that’s not criminal, right?” You can already hear her getting her guard up. 

“No, I understand,” you say, one hand thrust past Feferi’s arm asking for the scrunchie around her wrist while the other hand holds the end of the braid in place. “It’s hard when the people you care about...” You accept the scrunchie, and start to wrap it around the end of her hair. “When people you care about go away, or are hurt.” 

“What do you mean you understand?” Feferi wants to know, pulling the braid over her shoulder with both hands as she swivels to look at you. “Dave’s okay, isn’t he?” 

“It’s not Dave,” you say with a shake of your head. “Come on, let’s see if we can’t be social with Dave and Tavros, alright?” You push at her back to make her get up, and she keeps asking what you meant until you share the room with the other two people in the apartment again. Everyone but Feferi agrees on Mario Kart, and Feferi just doesn’t know what it is, so you graciously give her first player; it ends up being a mistake when she picks up on it instantly and blows through with a gold trophy again and again. In fact, Dave constantly comes in fourth place for all his trash talk, and he ends up stuffing his controller between two couch cushions and going out for another smoke. 

When Dave and Tavros leave, though, Feferi flops down for a nap and you’re left alone with your thoughts. 

 

_When your father leaves, it’s for the second time, but for you it’s the very first time, and Dirk holds his hands over your ears on the day he does. (Dave holds his own hands over his ears as per Dirk’s instruction.) It doesn’t block out all the ugly words, and even when Dirk whispers between his hand and your ear to close your eyes, you still see things thrown in both directions. You and Dave are seven, and Dirk is fifteen._

_Your mother takes on her maiden name of Lalonde after the divorce, although you stay Rose Strider. She promises over and over that things will be okay. You move from Bedford Stuyvesant to a much smaller apartment in Washington Heights; she plays up the fact that you live in Manhattan now, and isn’t that glamorous?_

_On Sundays she fills the apartment with the smells of hearty cooking and the sounds of Marvin Gaye, with special emphasis on the song_ Wholy Holy _. It’s not that you’re a particularly pious family, but it brings a certain sense of comfort and tranquility to the four of you, even your rambunctious twin, especially when it plays as she serves the food. You don’t understand at that age why sometimes your mother wipes away tears at the stove during the song, or why Dirk keeps suggesting that maybe she not play it. You write it off as a religious thing._

_One Sunday, you wake up to that song, and snuggle back into bed thinking your mother must be up earlier than usual. You wake up an hour later, and the song is still playing; you wriggle out from under Dave’s arm and the covers, and pad out into the main room, where Dirk is asleep on the pullout couch. He manages to sleep through anything._

_Your mother’s room is a lot smaller than the one you share with Dave, and you’ve always wondered what it used to be before it got filled halfway with a twin bed. The record player she uses for Sundays is usually out in the main room so you can hear it as you eat, but this morning it’s sort of haphazardly tucked in the corner, not quite flush to the wall. The song is still playing. Your mother lies on her belly in the bed, one arm hanging limp off the side to drag on the carpeted floor._

_When you give her hip a shake, you hear glass bottles clinking together instead. She feels cold, but you chalk that up to her having fallen asleep without even a sheet over her. You can hear Dirk waking up in the main room, calling your name groggily, but you give your mother another shake as you call for her because she’s never been such a heavy sleeper. There’s something around her mouth when you lean up on tip toe to look at her face._

_Suddenly you’re being pulled away by the shoulder, Dirk yelling for you to get out, and you resist because you don’t know what his problem is. He ends up pushing you all the way out of the room and slamming the door shut in your face._

_An hour later Dave is awake too as your mother is zipped into a long black bag. The EMTs and Dirk all tried to keep you in your bedroom, or at least the kitchen, but you stand your ground and Dave holds with you._

_The song is still playing when they take her away. You are eight._

_The first place the three of you go is to your aunt and uncle’s place in Long Island with your cousin Roxy, on your mother’s side. You show up on the porch, Dirk holding both your hands, and your relatives all give you big, squeezing hugs that don’t make the hurt go away, exactly, but make you at least feel like not all is lost._

_Roxy is the definition of cool, with pink permed hair and trendy style that she makes look better than anyone else, in your esteemed opinion. She makes Dirk look like a lump of loser with his dumb obsession with Japanese swords and martial arts that just comes across as trying too hard. You and Roxy laugh together at how much Dave buys into that crap, and she teaches you how to do makeup that worries adults. You definitely worry your aunt and uncle when they catch your eight year old self around the house wearing black lipstick and too much of Roxy’s eyeliner._

_Life is alright for you and Dave, and Dirk’s recent taciturnity falls outside of your young radar. You hear your aunt say something once about the tenacity of youth, and then something about worrying about Dirk, but you’re on your way to Roxy’s room so you don’t really care._

_A few months later, your aunt comes into your room when you’re still asleep, and sits on your bed—which you still share with Dave—to wake you both up. She dabs at her eyes with a tissue that she’s had crumpled in her fist, and it takes her twenty minutes to tell you that you can’t stay here anymore. When Dave asks why not she just breaks down crying, sobbing over the pair of you as she draws you close._

_It turns out your uncle lost his job over a month ago, and with him having been the bigger breadwinner of the household, and no jobs still turning up, your relatives can no longer afford to house and feed the Strider children. Your aunt doesn’t stop crying the day you all leave for the group home, apologizing over and over, and Roxy gives you an extra long hug, whispering to you that she’ll see you again soon. You don’t say anything in return._

_You’re separated from your brothers. Dirk is the first to be pulled away, presumably because he’s older, but you get given stupid buzzword excuses like “at risk” and “troubled”, too. Then you’re split from Dave, and you’re never even told_ why _. You don’t understand why the family he’s fostered out to can’t take you too—from what you gather they only have one other child. You wouldn’t be a burden. Is it because you’re ugly?_

 _When you finally get fostered out the woman now in charge of your life is sour once the social worker leaves. She calls you a paycheck. One day you sit close to her son while watching TV, mostly because the six year old has taken up a good deal of the couch and there’s really nowhere else to sit but the floor, and the next thing you know you’re being yanked to your feet by a fistful of your braids while your foster “mother” screams_ Nappy-headed little slut! _You defend yourself, trying to claw her hand away from your hair, and she slaps you halfway across the room. You don’t understand what your life is anymore._

_What you understand is that nobody will help you anymore. You escape to the library a lot on the weekends and after school, where you can read in peace for hours, always remembering to return to the house before the foster woman gets back. You don’t care if it means leaving her house unlocked and empty on Saturdays and Sundays; you hate her and her stupid passive son, and you have nothing a thief would be interested in. Until you turn eleven years old, you are utterly alone._

_Dirk is nineteen, and has apparently been trying to prove to the courts that he can care for both you and your twin since he turned eighteen; he has a high school Regents diploma, two jobs, and an apartment with a friend that the courts have deemed to be neither a pedophile nor a serial killer. You run into Dirk’s arms in the court room, and then Dave is added to the mix, pudgy pale arms grasping at both your backs._

_Neither of your brothers are the same. You barely see Dirk, who does nothing but work, and when he is home he spends most of that time with his friend, which you don’t think is just a friend. The rest of it he spends teaching Dave martial arts and swordplay, which you find so monumentally pointless you can’t even comment on it. Dave himself is much quieter than he used to be, and has gotten into the habit of denying his guilt before it’s even implied. You figure out that_ something _happened to him in the past few years, but you can’t figure out what, and you can’t bring yourself to ask. You both fight for time on the one computer in the apartment._

_A short while after Dirk rescues you and Dave from foster care, you sit up on the roof with your twin. You contemplate him in silence, wondering what could have changed him into the secretive creature next to you, when he turns to you and says, “You’re not the same as you were.”_

_When you turn eighteen you change your last name to Lalonde. Nobody says anything about it._

 

You’re woken up by a scream in your ear. Your eyes fly open, and in the moonlight coming through your bedroom window you see Feferi struggling in the arms of a skeleton-faced troll with horns like Gamzee’s and indiscernible lines across his mouth, before they plunge a needle into the side of her neck. She falls limp as you scramble out of bed, but you’re still half-asleep and uncoordinated while the Gamzee doppelganger is making their swift way through your window, unconscious hostage and all. By the time you make it to the window, they’re not even on the fire escape anymore. 

You don’t have time for stupid things like crying. You call your twin first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please let me know if i need any further tags on this or something?? or just, anything that bothered you, or, anything at all, please give me all your feelings in full


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back with more selkie lover! i had a change in plan for this story so it was sort of necessary to pause it
> 
> this chapter is kind of standard length 2k-ish words, but we're back on track is the point here
> 
> eta: [really good supplemental reading](http://archiveofourown.org/works/634378) for this chapter if you havent read it already

The first thing you smell is blood, just enough to wake you up. Your eyes fly open, and at first all you see is corrugated metal and a cheap hanging bulb that hurts your eyes. The first thing you feel is a hand on your shoulder. 

You slap your own hand over it, halfway sitting up on what you realize is a table to look at the hand’s owner. You see hard olive eyes set in a round face, and you bare your teeth, squeezing the hand in warning. They let go. 

You realize you sat up too fast, woozy and sick, and you lay slowly back down with a hand pressed over your eyes. “Where am I?” 

“I’m Daelan,” the young troll says instead, light feminine voice somewhat slurred. When you glance at them—her?—between your fingers, you notice their jaw doesn’t quite sit right. “I’m a girl too, so don’t worry.” 

“Worry about what?” you spit as you try sitting up again, looking around the room. The ceilings are bizarrely high in this slapdash shack, and the corners are grimy in a way that suggests someone made a half-hearted attempt to scrub the place down. There are places in the walls where rust has eaten little windows to the outside world, but all you can see is purple sky. “Tetanus?” 

“I don’t know, he told me to tell you not to worry,” Daelan huffs. “I don’t have to be nice for you, just so we’re clear.” 

“I don’t want you to be nice, I want you to show me how to get out of this hell hole.” You take another sniff of the air. “Why does it smell so bad?” 

“This is a district, that’s why.” She leans forward on her elbows, resting her head on the crux of her crossed arms. “If it doesn’t stink, you’re probably just dreaming.” 

“The district? You mean New Alternia 5, right?” Suddenly you care what this moldblood has to say, slamming your hands hard enough on the table to make her jolt away from it. “Where’s Dualscar?” 

“Who?” That tiny hint of a smirk on Daelan’s face tells you she knows exactly who you mean, which makes you snarl. You whirl away to look for the door, but when you find it the knob doesn’t budge, and you can hear Daelan chuckling behind you. 

“Let me out,” you hiss. “I don’t want to stay in this dump.” 

“Yeah, well, you’re locked in this ‘dump’ here with me, and I don’t have the key.” She holds up her hands. “Kurloz has it.” 

“Who?” you say in a cruel imitation of her speech impediment, which finally cows her. “I don’t care who this ‘Curlies’ is, I have better things to be doing than be stuck here.” 

She doesn’t answer. 

The doorknob turns suddenly under your hand, making you jump back. You keep backing up as the lock turns and the door begins to swing open, and now you understand why the ceilings are so high. The troll who enters is taller than you can even accurately gauge, although ten feet tall doesn’t sound wrong, especially with his long twisting horns. At first you think he’s wearing face paint but you realize as he comes into the light that it’s tattooed, a permanent cartoonish skull face leering down at you to match the simplistic bones inked on his bony chest and down his stringy arms to the tips of his long fingers. The open door brings in freezing wind, but he’s naked from the hips up, clad only in black pants and broken boots. 

The worst part about him, though, you discover as he leans down toward you and clasps your face in his enormous spidery hands. His lips are sewn shut with black line, white scar tissue amassed around each needle hole, and there’s something wrong with his eyes, filmy and lavender. 

You smack his hands away, backing up more until the backs of your thighs crash against the edge of the table. Daelan has leapt to her feet, and when you glance back at her she’s got her head down, hands clasped in front of her. You regret looking away when the giant troll has already closed the distance between you and is reaching for your face again. 

The door is closed behind him, but you don’t think he’s locked it. You duck under his hands and sprint for the door, shoving at his side as you go—and a long arm wraps around your waist, clotheslining you. He deposits you, coughing and winded, on the table again. 

“This is Kurloz,” Daelan says as Kurloz straightens and regards you. “You can talk to _him_ about leaving.” 

“Oh, what, like I’m afraid of some mute with a growth disorder? Please. Can he even see?” You wave your hand in front of his face, and you barely suppress a yelp when he grabs your wrist in a blur of movement. He’s definitely looking you right in the eye, which you guess answers your question. 

“His eyes are just like that,” Daelan says with a shrug. You tear your hand away, glaring at Kurloz. “Don’t worry, he can see you just fine.” 

“So what does he want?” you ask, rubbing at your wrist pointedly. “I still don’t know why I’m here.” You lean away as best you can as Kurloz bends toward you, but he catches you by the back of your neck and presses his forehead to yours. “What—”

Cold creeps up your spine, and you clench your teeth when you begin to shiver violently. All you can see is Kurloz’s eyes, everything in your peripheral vision going dark. Your blood stings in your veins.

**I BROUGHT YOU HERE. I BROUGHT YOU HERE TO SHOW YOU WHAT TO FIX. WE NEED YOU, HEIRESS.**

The voice booms in your head, harsh and grating and wrong. You don’t understand why there are tears on your face, or why you can’t look away from Kurloz’s ghostly eyes. “Let me go,” you whine, even as you’re unable to command your body to try and escape. “I don’t know what you want me to do!”

**POOR LITTLE LOST FISH. WE’RE GOING TO SAVE YOU SO YOU CAN SAVE US. WE NEED YOU.**

The stinging sensation is climbing your arms now, and it’s painful and nauseating to try and breathe. You want to die. You want to die, you want all this to go away, you want _anything_ that will make this stop.

**WILL YOU HELP US, HEIRESS? WILL YOU ANSWER OUR NEED?**

“Leave me alone!” you sob.

**WILL YOU GO WITH DAELAN AND LET HER SHOW YOU?**

“I said stop!” Energy surges up from your core, burning out the awful stinging feeling like an infection. Your hands come up, up, sink yellow claws into Kurloz’s bare shoulders until purple wells up around them; they push down, down, until Kurloz has been forced to his knees. “Leave me alone! Get out of my head!” you scream, and you don’t find yourself letting go of him. You can see pain in the set of his stitched mouth, and in his pale irises rolling back, but you just dig deeper.

“Let go of him!” Daelan cries out from behind you, and you can feel her looping her arms around your waist and pulling. “Get off!” 

You surprise yourself when you do just that, flicking blood off your fingertips as you step away from Kurloz. Bruises are already blossoming where your hands were, but he seems to shake off the pain well, simply getting to his feet and staring down at you. You glare back defiantly. 

“He asked you to help, didn’t he?” Daelan says, so quiet you don’t even hear her at first. You turn to face her and you’re met with hunched shoulders and a quivering lip. “I knew you’d say no. You’re just some fake Condesce grown in a tube to do tricks for humans. You don’t care about—” 

You slap her and she goes flying backwards, the wall rattling when her back hits it. She looks up with a face full of hatred, opening her mouth to let out some angry guttural sound. 

“Dualscar was always right,” you say, stalking toward the door. “I can’t trust anybody who isn’t him.” 

Neither of them try to stop you from exiting the shack. 

Outside, though, you’re just as lost, no obvious way out. It smells even worse out here, not just of stale blood but a whole spectrum of decay. Garbage litters the streets, if they can even be called that, and everywhere you look there are dirty-looking trolls staring at you. You flap your fins in agitation and head off in a random direction. You change course abruptly when that leads you to a dead troll, bloated and full of flies. 

“It’s gross, isn’t it?” That’s Daelan’s voice again, walking beside you, and you give a startled twitch. “Like, ugly and nasty.” 

“I just want to go back to Rose’s,” you mutter, stomping ahead. Daelan takes three trotting steps for every one of your strides. 

“So you can, what, be a pet troll again? Kurloz told me how he found you,” she sneers. “They made you chop off your horns so you could fit into their little world.” 

“That was my decision!” you snap, but you still wrap a hand around one horn defensively. Daelan just looks at you, and you growl, “What do you even want from me? What could I possibly do that’s so helpful?” 

“You could change things, if you wanted to,” she says with a shrug. “Most trolls don’t even know anymore that your blood color is a legitimate part of the hemospectrum, or what really happened to Her Imperial Condescension. You could be a rallying point.” 

“That doesn’t make any sense.” You slow down, not quite enough to match her stride but enough that she doesn’t have to jog anymore. 

“The point is that we’re pathetic.” She gestures widely. “Everyone’s too tired and sick and hungry to do anything about it in here, and anyone who leaves has already bought humanity’s lies.” And she looks up at you. “You don’t even have to be a real leader. Just, you know, show yourself, show that trolls are stronger, and maybe we can tear things up for a change.” 

“I thought I was just a clone in a tube,” you say, and she grimaces. 

“What did you want me to say? You hit me, you hurt my matesprit.” 

“Your matesprit?” You arch your brows. “Isn’t he a bit high on the spectrum for you?” You manage to not call her a moldblood. 

“I’m just a substitute.” Everything about her goes flat as she slumps along beside you. “His last matesprit was an oliveblood, too, but she couldn’t make it out here. We even have similar names.” Daelan shakes her head. “It keeps a lot of the other highbloods off my back, though, and I guess it’s nice to have a body next to you when you fall asleep.” A sigh. “Anyway, none of that is important. What _is_ important is that you don’t go back to the humans.” 

You stop short, and Daelan catches on a second later, glancing back at you. 

“I’m not saying I’ll do whatever it is you’re saying you want me to do,” you say with a nervous swallow, “but if I want to just... If I want to hear more about it, I don’t have to talk to Kurloz again, do I?” 

She shakes her head. “No. The Grand Highblood will talk to you.” 

You know that name. “Does he know I’m here?” 

Daelan hesitates. “Kurloz didn’t say.” 

You offer your hand. “Take me to him, then.” 

And she takes your hand, pulling you in a new direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always i look forward to your comments!! i love your reactions and feelings and stuff it's the best part of this for me


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> men are useless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay, work etc
> 
> plus i think i'm just taking longest with this one because i feel like it's the heaviest fic in the series, plotwise, and i want it to be as good as i can make it

“This is a joke, right?” Dave tips his shades down his nose, giving his sister an incredulous stare. 

“While it’s true that my sense of humor is much more subtle and, frankly, better than yours, this isn’t one of my jokes flying over your head.” She folds her arms and glares right back. “I just want to talk to him about it.” 

“He’s asleep right now. We’re nocturnal, me and him both, and the only reason I’m even up right now is because you at least had the courtesy to ask ahead of time instead of just busting into my place unannounced like everyone else in Brooklyn.” He puts his whole face in his mug of coffee, still bleary. “I thought you just wanted to finally fucking visit.” 

“Don’t be like that. See, look, we even brought a peace offering.” Rose motions you over and you put the little insulated lunchbag on the table, which she pushes over to him. “See? Egg salad sandwiches that I know you’re too lazy to make, or at least make the right way. And we brought you more apple cider.” You put that on the table, too, a single half gallon in a flimsy plastic bag. 

Contrary to expectations, Dave just looks queasy, shoving the bag back Rose’s way. “What is this, a bribe?” He does pull the cider toward himself, though. 

“If you wanna look at it that way, sure,” Rose says, rolling her eyes with exasperation. You leave the humans to their bickering, and while Dave is distracted you slip away to the bedroom. 

Gamzee is in bed, sure, but dozing at most. You murmur his name, and he turns onto his back to look your way. Dave’s bed is wide, but Gamzee’s feet still hang off the end by a good deal. “Kanaya,” he croaks sleepily, cracking a smile. “C’mere, girl.” He holds one curving arm out. Through the power of dating twins, the pair of you were forced to socialize, and although in different quadrants you ended up bonding over the weirdness of being in a relationship with a human, particularly a Strider-Lalonde. 

“When’s the last time you bathed?” you quip, but you go to his side anyway, and he wraps his arm around your waist to crush your hips to his ribs. 

“You gotta ask Dave about all that,” he laughs. “Didn’t think I’d be seein’ you anytime, sis.” 

“Ah. Well,” you say, propping your elbows on his stomach and leaning back, “Rose is in the kitchen with Dave trying to get through him so she can ask you a few questions.” 

“So let her ask, I ain’t no invalid,” he snorts. “He ain’t my doctor.” 

“Doctor?” you echo, sitting up to get a second look at him. He doesn’t _look_ sick, but that was a pretty specific thing to say. 

“I was…sick,” he mutters. You don’t trust the way he doesn’t quite look at you, eyes darting. At least around you, he’s never been a very good liar. “Dave took care of me.” That much at least you can guess is true, Gamzee finally meeting your gaze again. 

“You weren’t really sick, were you?” you ask with a shake of your head. “Shame on you, Gamzee Makara, for trying to lie to me.” 

“I was sick, in some kinda way,” he protests. “Just…I ain’t even know I should tell you, you work’ for the Bureau and all.” 

“Gamzee,” you say as you shoot him a stern look, “I’m not going to sell you out. What do I look like to you?” 

“A classy-ass dame who does her job by the book, is what,” he says with a weak grin. 

“I promise.” You squeeze his hand. 

He looks around like he’s expecting the Bureau police to pop out at any moment, then licks his lips. “It was eggs, Kan. I had ‘em outside the fuckin’ district like the piece o’ shit Dave’s always sayin’ I am.” 

“You—” You lean toward him with a start, eyes going wide. “You’re not serious!” 

“I joke about a lotta stupid shit, no lie, but about this I ain’t, I give you my word as a do-nothing ain’t-shit motherfucker,” he says with one raised palm. 

“Well, where are they?” You find yourself whispering, as if you too expect an ambush. “I mean…they’d have hatched by now, right?” 

“Where?” Gamzee repeats with a shrug, and then the knuckles of one fist meet the palm of his other hand. You cringe when he twists them against each other. “They didn’t hatch, don’t you worry but a bit.” 

You’re not quite sure what to say. Really, it’s for the best, but you have to work hard to put the gruesome imagery out of your mind. “Did you want them?” you ask, taking his hand again, because sorry doesn’t cut it. 

“Hell no, ain’t no need for more sad-ass little hyena wrigglers in this world,” he snorts. “It was Dave was wantin’ ’em. Some human shit I don’t even get to fathoming, and now I don’t get no more frittata like he used to cook me.” 

“Dave cooks for you?” You raise a hand to your mouth as you titter. It’s best not to pry too much more into the whole egg thing, but the idea of anyone waiting hand and foot on Gamzee, especially Dave Strider, is ridiculous. 

“Shit yeah, sis, while I was all knocked up he did every goddamn thing for me. I couldn’t even get clean by my damn self.” 

“So then it sounds like he’s really devoted to you.” You don’t mean to smirk like that, but teasing Gamzee about the very red nature of his kismesissitude has always been pretty fun to watch. 

“Man, just don’t go telling Vriska but none of that,” he says with a push to your shoulder, like that’s gonna hide the faint purple spreading in his cheeks. 

“Vriska—” Now it’s your turn to blush furiously. “Who said anything about Vriska?” 

“Please, like I can’t smell spider-bitch all the fuck over you,” he laughs, until you slap a pillow over his face. 

“You do not!” 

“Okay, no, but,” and he reaches up to pluck something off your shoulder, “this is from those tarantulas she keepin’, right?” 

“Oh. Well, yes, I’ve been staying with her, just for now, until Feferi grew up or got out. Or well—” You bite your lip and glance at your knees. “Ironically, that’s more or less why we’re here. We need to get her back now.” 

“Back?” 

“Rose says a troll who looked like you kidnapped Feferi.” You look at him out of the corner of your vision, watching him fidget under your words. “Right down to the horns. Except I think taller?” 

“Kurloz,” Gamzee mutters. 

“Is he a clutchmate of yours?” you ask, trying not to sound too desperate for information as you twist your hands together. “Or is it just coincidence?” 

“He’s related.” Gamzee sits up, which disengages you. “Wasn’t the Grand Highblood’s clutch directly, even if he contributed genetics and all. Me ’n’ Eridan, we’re from the only clutch the Grand Shitstain ever laid himself.” 

“So you know him, then.” 

“About as well as anyone knows that motherfucker,” he snorts. “He got religion, spirituality like nobody else ever got, see, so he sewed up his everything and got declared priest o’ that shitty murderclown churchhood.” 

“Sewed up—?” You shake your head trying to clear it of the ugly imagery Gamzee’s words put there. 

“The main thing is, if your girl Feferi got up and trollnapped by Kurloz? She got took to the Grand Highblood, most definitely. _That’s_ the help I can be givin’ you.” He drives the point of his index finger into the sheets for emphasis. “But me ’n’ Dave, we can’t go riskin’ our shit for this fishy princess chick when it was me just got outta there.” 

“But—”

“But nothin’, sis, I still got this motherfucker to wear even if I was all gungo as shit to assist you in your noble quest.” Gamzee pulls the covers away from his foot, revealing his ankle bracelet; you have to admit you’d forgotten about that, although you don’t think Rose did. 

“Oh. Right,” you say with a rapid little blinking grimace. “Well, you still proved helpful, so… Thank you, Gamzee.” 

“Anytime, Kan, any fuckin’ time.” He flashes you a grin, and the next thing you know you’re being drawn into a bonecrusher of a hug. “Don’t you get fuckin’ killed or nothin’ though, or I’m gonna have to get myself in all sortsa brand new legal troubles.” 

“Please don’t,” you say as you pull away. “Anyway, maybe Dave will still help.” 

Gamzee just arches his brows, and you head back into the main room with some trepidation. 

“Please, like I’m fucking ashamed of doing _amateur porn!”_ Dave snaps at his sister as you enter, halfway out of his chair. “It’s just—” He looks your way and sinks down with a red face. “Uh.” 

“Well,” Rose says, steepling her fingers as she stares down her twin, “if the threat of showing our friends what a star you were as Godhead won't persuade you, then maybe certain photos from our shared childhood—”

You didn’t think it was possible for Dave to get any redder, and in a way you’re right because he’s going from red to purple. “You said you lost those!” 

“Oops! I unlost them.” Rose purses her lips with a sardonic little shrug. “It’s not like I want to blackmail you, brother dear, but I need your help, like it or not.” 

“Well, you know, blackmail me all you goddamn want, I’m not putting Gamzee’s freedom on the line.” His fist is like a gavel on the tabletop. “I’m sorry, Rose. I love you too, and I feel for you, but the answer’s no.” 

“Fine. It’s only my entire livelihood at stake, here.” She starts to get up. “It’s only the life of one troll who’s never lived outside a government facility until a little while ago.” One sleeve of her coat, then the other; you take your cue and start getting dressed to leave, too. “It’s not like these things matter.” 

“Don’t do that, Rose. Gamzee’s life matters, too. Don’t fucking do that to me.” But Rose is already ignoring Dave. “Rose!”

“I’ll see you later, Dave,” she says, and you can almost feel a chill pass through the room. “Goodbye.” You follow her out, closing the door behind you as Rose storms to the elevator. 

“We’ll find someone,” you say as Rose grasps your forearm in the elevator, too short to simply clasp your hand. “Even if we don’t...” You look down at her, just as she looks up. “I won’t let you do foolhardy things by yourself.” 

“It’s not foolhardy,” she sniffs. “I’m just... I mean, that’s what you do when these things happen, right? I feel like our little social circle ought to be making weekly trips to NA5 to pick up whoever got sucked into that black hole of a district.” She leans her head against you, and you pull your arm out of her hands to put it around her shoulders. “It’s what Dave did when Gamzee was stuck there, and nobody’s judged _him_ for that.” 

“You know that’s not the case at all,” you say, giving her a little push with your hip as the elevator slows to the lobby. “In fact I’m pretty sure we all told him to give up.” 

“That was Tavros, not me, specifically,” she says as she slips out from under your arm to fit through the narrow elevator door. “I don’t know how Gamzee fits into this elevator.” 

“Not well,” you say as you duck out with a smile. 

You walk together for a while in silence, separating every so often when there are a few too many people on the street for your shared comfort. You’re basically alone on an avenue block when Rose mutters, “Men are useless.” 

“Agreed,” you say with a laugh. 

“Do you think Jade will help? She helped Dave.” When you glance down she’s biting her lip, frowning in thought. 

“I think,” you say, hesitating when she looks back up at you; you’re not sure how you feel about this idea, and even less sure of how much Rose will like it. “I think Vriska might be able to help us.” 

“Vris—what?!” Rose goes almost cross-eyed. “I thought it was common knowledge you don’t trust a Serket, especially one by the name of Vriska.” 

“She’s from NA5, and she might know how to get in and out without going through security.” You give her a hard stare. “Or don’t you remember we can’t get Bureau papers for this particular escapade? If the Bureau finds out you lost her...” 

“Of course I remember, but I feel like even asking Vriska is tantamount to shooting ourselves in the foot. In fact, not just one foot—all the feet we have between the two of us, all four feet.” The corner of her mouth tugs to one side as she arches her brow. 

“She could still help us. And I think she will. I’ve been staying with her.” 

“I knew that.” She looks like she’s trying to not look sulky. 

“I agreed to be her moirail.” 

“I knew—wait, what?” The shock on her face makes you cringe, although you feel it’s a good sign that she’s still hanging onto you. 

“It just happened, and I didn’t think it was... I thought it better to not bring it up before now.” You hope shrugging won’t dig your hole deeper. 

“You could have told me. I understand quadrants. I thought you would have known that, Kanaya.” You both pause in your tracks, and you pull her close as she scrunches her features up and puts her forehead to your sternum. 

“I know you do, darling. I just... Sometimes I feel like you say you understand more than you actually do.” You stroke her hair. “Just based on your history. I know you’re trying.” 

It at least doesn’t feel like she’s crying, and there’s a very long silent moment before she just sighs. “Let’s go ask Vriska, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yeah as per usual thoughts, feelings, reactions, i love them all and they're great to come home to after a long night at work c:


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> feferi and the grand highbutt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyy hiatus over! i had a few days off last week but i was also sick with some kind of plague so there was no way i was doing anything more than downing robitussin and watching breaking bad
> 
> hopefully i can get chapter 8 up soon, and then maybe chapter 3 of true romance

It’s dark within the Grand Highblood’s hive, which is what Daelan called it; to you it just looked like an extra-big shack. The area around it is crowded with scruffy purple-eyed trolls, all wearing variations of white and grey clownish facepaint, and they snicker at Daelan as she passes but they don’t come near. There aren’t any of them inside the building itself, though, and at first you think that it’s completely empty, makes you tense up and look for the trap Daelan must be leading you into. 

And then you see him. 

The Grand Highblood is the biggest troll you’ve ever seen, taller than Kurloz by a good few feet—maybe twelve feet to the crown, and his long twisted horns bring his total height past fifteen feet. There’s some weird discoloration at the bases of them that give you pause. He’s standing on what you guess is supposed to be a dais, , not much more than a platform with a chair on it, and he steps down as you approach. It's hard to make out his face in the shadow, but what you so see looks like a grinning death mask. 

“Feferi,” Daelan says, gesturing with a shaking hand toward the Grand Highblood, but he dismisses her with a silent wave. She holds her ground for only a few seconds, glancing nervously your way, before darting off in obvious relief. You're left alone. 

At first neither of you say a word. You can feel your heart beating a rapid tattoo against your ribs as he circles you, slow and thoughtful. Or deadly. Your fists clench in anticipation, though you're not sure what you could even do against a troll so much bigger than you, and so old. You've heard he's lived well over a millennia. 

“So you're the heiress,” he chuckles from behind you; you try to disguise the way it makes you jump. “Feferi motherfuckin' Peixes, am I sayin’ that right? Mixed up in a lab by humans what ain’t got no respect for the processes of life.” His voice rattles your bones from your crown to your toes, a killer rasp that somehow still manages to boom. “Or maybe I oughta be callin’ you Princess Feferi, like what Dualscar all loved to be callin’ you.” 

“You were his kismesis,” you say, staring straight ahead in a way you hope makes you look brave. Dualscar’s stories were almost always about how good things used to be on Alternia, but when you were young and small he would give in to your pleading black eyes (and loud shrieking) and tell you stories from after The Great Crash, which is what he liked to call it, and so did you even though you never heard those words come out of a human mouth. You knew who was more trustworthy, at least back then. 

“Oh, once upon a time, yeah, we were all up in deep hate-love,” the Grand Highblood sighs as he sweeps past you to return to his so-called dais, and flops into his seat. “Didn’t think he’d all get to sharin’ that with anybody seein’s how it ended, but maybe what with you bein’ his Princess and all, ain’t no secrets he would hold from your webby little hearfices.” Your eyes are already adjusting to the low light of the room and you can see the frown that flits across the Highblood’s face, the exhaustion in his dark purple eyes. 

Maybe you feel a little less afraid. 

“Do you know where he is? Dualscar, I mean,” you ask, quietly at first, voice rising with each word. But the Highblood just looks at you in this way you can’t decipher, a blank stare you know promises to be more. 

“I hope Kurloz ain’t put too much fear in you, li’l princess,” he says, completely ignoring your question. “But ain’t none better than that motherfucker can slip in and outta this pit like he can. Ain’t no other way to send you an invitation, out there in the human cage.” 

“He kidnapped me!” you blurt out, before remembering you’re supposed to be scared. But you’re pretty sure by now that if the Grand Highblood intended to hurt you, even kill you, he wouldn’t be talking to you like an equal like this. So you keep going. “And Rose didn’t have me in a cage. I was asleep in bed next to her, and that mute freak stuck me with something!” 

“How gilded a cage gotta be before you think it’s just the sky, princess?” he asks quietly, or what must be quiet for him, anyway, and he ducks his head briefly to touch the base of one his horns. Your hand flies to your own horns, and you bite your lip. “They got you thinkin’ that was a choice you up and made on your lonesome, don’t they?” 

“It was easier this way,” you say, shaking your head. “I kept scratching up Rose’s ceiling. She arranged it for me when I asked her for it, not the other way around.” 

He shakes his head. “And why did you go askin’ her? Who put the notion of reducin’ horns as even a thing to be done in your nog in the first place?” When you don’t answer, he growls, “Humans get scared when they see our power, even when it’s shit that’s all part of their sad li’l imaginatings. So for me...” and he rubs at the place where the discoloration is most evident, bright and dark orange meeting in a harsh line, “they shot me fulla sleep and culled my horns from my head like motherfuckin’ parasites.” 

His horns seem a million miles long. “When?” 

“It don’t matter much,” he says, waving his hand. “Yours’ll grow up all big and strong none too soon, don’t you worry your fishy brainbloom, princess.” 

You frown as you fold your legs under you and take a seat on the floor. “Aren’t you the one who tried to make, uh, Gamzee stay here? Rose’s brother wasn’t happy about that, I heard.” 

“You got a lotta questions,” the Grand Highblood says with a sharp look, which makes you flinch, but he doesn’t move from his not-throne. “I got to thinkin’ Gamzee could get his help on in our direction, be a general or some shit, but that motherfucker is lost to chains o’ humanity, all thinkin’ they like and want him like the dumbass he always been.” Another shake of his massive head. “Be too late for him by the time he comes back the fuck around.” 

“What do you mean, ‘our’ direction?” you want to know, returning his sharp look. “Help us with what?” 

He gets up again, and despite feeling less afraid you still find yourself scrambling to your feet in his shadow. “Kurloz’ll be finding you more pleasant accommodations, right about now.” Right on cue, Kurloz’s enormous hand—though it seems much smaller now, in the Grand Highblood’s presence—descends upon your shoulder, and you jump out of your skin. “Like I said, princess, best you not get your worry on. We’ll be conversatin’ again real soon.” 

You let Kurloz lead you outside, which is bereft of the trolls who had been lounging around earlier; Daelan’s nowhere to be found, though you’re not sure if you’re surprised or not. When you snap at him for walking too fast as you follow him through the district, he actually slows down, which does surprise you. 

He brings you to another ugly little shack thing, though this one shares weird bulbous traits with the Grand Highblood’s so-called hive, and you don’t think you want to know how that’s achieved. It does sort of jive with Dualscar’s accounts of Alternian aesthetics, though. You think he’s following you inside, so you turn around and draw a big indignant breath to hit him with a whole bunch of questions, but all you’re met with is a closing door. 

At least it’s not locked, you find when you (immediately) test it, but you’re still not about to go wandering around the district by yourself. You have no way to communicate with anyone, either, like maybe Daelan, who seems like the only troll in this entire hell hole who isn’t a born murderer. 

You try very hard not to think about how easy you would have found it to murder _her_ not too long ago. 

Inside the shack there’s a squat little TV and some kind of player underneath, sitting in front of a pink floral love seat that’s only got one cushion, and a spring coming out of the bare side. At the Governor’s Island facility you had a DVD player that you got to use under supervision, but that’s not what you have here, and you wiggle the flap in front for a while until you find what you guess is a movie behind the player. It doesn’t have a case—it’s just a big black box with two white wheels, and the front says it’s called Finding Nemo. 

It takes you a few tries, but you actually get the box in the player and the player on and now you’re watching a movie about mutant fish? Disabled fish? The love seat is uncomfortable, but the floor is too splintery to sit on, which is still better than the dirt floor of the place in which you woke a few hours ago. All the water and sea creatures make you feel parched and homesick, at least for your vast aquarium. 

Nobody comes by for the rest of the day, and you watch the sun take its slow dip behind the horizon while you wonder if there’s a way to start the movie from the beginning without going through the whole thing backwards, finger sore from sitting on the rewind button. When it’s fully rewound—and now you finally understand where “rewind” comes from, hearing the little wheels whirring inside the player—you take a more exhaustive tour of the shack, and find a grimy little cooler with a couple of tuna sandwiches on soft white bread and a bottle of neon pink soda labeled Tropical Fantasy, supposedly strawberry flavor. You wolf it all down while you watch the movie a second time, and then as you rewind it again you wish you hadn’t eaten so fast because maybe you’d have something to eat for the third watching. You wonder why they only left you one movie. 

You want to go home. You want to sit on Rose’s comfortable furniture and have Rose’s comfortable hands braid your hair, which is currently turning into a knotted mess at the back of your head, still kind of in the last braid Rose gave you. You want to watch her TV shows about vampires who love humans and get loved back, because if fictional monsters who actively prey on humans can be accepted like that, maybe you stand a chance, too. It’s obvious the Grand Highblood wants to turn you against all humans, and Rose especially, but you’re too smart for that. Rose saved you, and some ancient has-been war criminal from the mother planet isn’t going to change that truth. 

You wake up the next morning with a start, curled into an uncomfortable ball of sore muscles and a sleeping arm on the usable half of the love seat. Still nobody comes to see you, although when you check the cooler in case by some wild chance there’s some crumb of food you missed, you find it restocked with more sandwiches and soda. There’s a singly-packaged black and white cookie hiding under the sandwiches. You try to resist watching Finding Nemo again, but you’re so bored you give in and you’re starting to mouth along to Dory’s lines. After the movie you stand by the window for a while, wonder if maybe you should try exploring in daylight, but you’re still certain you’d never find your way back to this particular crapshack and you don’t want to know what the consequences are for not being here when the Grand Highblood wants to talk to you again. If he wants to. 

Maybe his real plan is to just absorb you into the district, but you don’t know what the hell that would even accomplish. 

The sun has set and the only light in the shack is your sixth viewing of Finding Nemo by the time someone finally comes to get you. It’s Daelan this time, which you’re thankful for, although she’s much less loquacious than usual. Silent, in fact. She slips a hand around yours and squeezes as she leads you back to the Grand Highblood, but she won’t look at you when you try to shoot her a quizzical look. At the door she just stands aside, and as you push open the door you see Kurloz looming up behind her, his hands clasping over her collarbone like a noose. 

You close the door behind you quickly. 

This time the Grand Highblood is joined by two trolls that you guess must be bluebloods, going by their unpainted faces. They stand like soldiers to either side of a large, dirty crate, impassive and obedient. “Is that for me?” you ask as you approach, but they ignore you completely, and the Highblood himself just skips over the question. 

“So word in my hear holes is you like humans a whole motherfuck of a lot these days, is that right, princess?” he asks as the bluebloods just so casually step between you and the crate. 

“Well, not humans in general, but they’re not all bad,” you say as you step to one side, and huff in frustration as the bluebloods block your path to the crate, and in the process your view of the Grand Highblood too. “How am I supposed to have a conversation with someone I can’t see? I’m not trying to get to the stupid box, get out of my way!” 

“Dherst,” the Highblood rumbles, and the blueblood directly in front of you takes a baby step to the side, just enough to let you have an unimpeded view of the giant troll on the dais. “Is that all the fuck better, princess?” 

“Yeah,” you mutter, crossing your arms. “Is this what you brought me here for? To quiz me?” 

“She’s got spark, that’s for sure,” the Grand Highblood chuckles. “But no, li’l princess, I got somethin’ to show you. A truth to show you, if you got the desire to put it that way, which I do.” So the crate is for you, after all. Your curiosity about it suddenly vanishes, and you even take a few steps back. 

“You asked me, yesterday, did I know what happened to ol’ Dualscar?” The bluebloods return to the sides of the crate. “And the melancholy truth of it, li’l sis, is that I do.” Twenty grey fingers grasp the sides of the crate’s lid, and you’re shaking your head, you don’t want to see, you don’t want to know. 

“Humans did this unholy shit unto him, I want for you to keep that notion in your memories,” he says, and then the bluebloods are lifting the top of the crate away and you want to die—

His head lies on his chest, violet blood dried dark around the bottom of his neck and around the stump where it once connected to make him live and breathe. Bright violet stains the white T-shirt he never would have worn in life, around the collar and at the hem where he’s been cut in half to fit in his coffin-crate more efficiently, and his left leg in dark pants that are both too big and too short is hiked up on the side of his ribs. One of his hands is missing, sawed off at the wrist. The smell of death curls into your lungs like a disease. 

Somewhere in your consciousness you’re aware the Grand Highblood is still speaking but it’s white noise as your own sobbing cuts off your breath and brings you to your knees. Your fingers are weak as they grip the side of the crate to keep you upright, screams tearing through your throat like they’ll bring you closer to Dualscar in decapitation. As seadwellers you’ve both always been cool to the touch but now he feels like ice as you slide a hand over his dead cheek, no flutter of life to tell you you’re safe from human interference for at least the next few hours as he tells you how special you are. 

A huge finger tips your wet chin up, and you look into the dark and strangely sad eyes of the Grand Highblood. “Rose knew,” he says.

“No,” you choke out, shaking your head vehemently even as you card your fingers through Dualscar’s hair. “She said she didn’t know, she...” 

“Humans lie,” the Highblood says, his thumb brushing over your cheek like he was your father, too. “She motherfucking _knew_.” 

“Then, she wanted to protect me—”

“She’s got words like poison to turn you against your own kind, princess!” the Grand Highblood booms as he stands straight. “She worked for them what kept you in a glass box and told you lies about life outside, and then she took you home like a motherfuckin’ _pet_ and kept you in a new box, with new lies!”

You bite your lip until fuschia drips onto Dualscar’s forehead, still shaking your head. 

“She knew, Feferi Peixes. And that is the truth of it all.” There’s a moment of silence only broken by the sound of your crying, and then, “Will you help me, princess, against these humans keepin’ us down and caged?” 

You pull Dualscar’s head out of the crate and cradle it to your body, leaning against the wooden slats, caressing one of his fins between your fingers. You press your face into his hair, trying to even out your breathing. 

“Yes,” you reply. “I’ll help you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo as per usual feedback, reactions, feelings, whatever's in your heart!! is really appreciated and keeps me motivated when im stuck at work so please! and thank you forever i love you very much dear reader


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> please dont be too upset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!! i quit my job over a week ago, and subsequently slid into some of the most amazing lethargy the world has ever seen. but now i've updated! and chapter 9 of stop me should be up next, i just have some more packing to do for the move before i do that. 
> 
> anyway, i've added some tags, so PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE stop and review them before proceeding to the chapter!

The second the door flies open you regret coming out here. Vriska is overbearing from the start, pulling Kanaya into a big obnoxious embrace and talking animatedly about how boring her day has been until now with the best moirail in existence to light up her life. In fact, Vriska almost sandwiches you between the door and its frame, and she ignores you as she pulls Kanaya into the apartment. You’ve been to Gamzee’s old apartment, and while Vriska’s isn’t full of trash the way his was, you think that might just be because the definition of _trash_ is debatable here. No used paper towels or old wrappers here, or even dirty dishes, but there are corners where the knick knacks are literally piled up like some kind of sad dragon’s hoard. 

In the middle of the hoard is a fairly clean, bright red couch that has no room for you once Vriska sprawls across it next to Kanaya. She knew you were coming, but she’s made no effort to get dressed, wearing the world’s rattiest fake band shirt that doesn’t quite meet the top of her sweats. She puts her feet up on Kanaya’s lap, though she’s mindful enough to keep her soles off the fabric of her skirt. 

“So, Kanaya tells me you’re in dire need of my services,” Vriska says with a lick of her canines as she finally acknowledges you. “And let me tell you how lucky you are that you’re Kanaya’s matesprit! Because honestly, my help wouldn’t come without cost otherwise. But Kanaya,” she says, wiggling her toes, “is payment enough.” 

You try not to let it burn you when Kanaya gives Vriska a warm smile at that. 

“So what could you possibly need li’l ol’ me for?” she drawls, clasping her hands behind her head in an affectation so cartoonish it’s hard to not yank her arms down. “What happened to that saying about never trusting a Serket?” 

“We need your help,” you begin with a sigh. “It’s—”

“No shit! My help? Are you serious? Wow, that’s definitely not what Kanaya told me when she said you guys needed my help!” she interrupts, wide-eyed as she quirks her eyebrows at you. “That’s fucking amazing!” 

“—It’s Feferi,” you say as you grit your teeth. “She was kidnapped, and we know she’s in New Alternia 5. We went to Gamzee, but Dave won’t let him help us, and we figured you might know a secret way in and out of the district.” 

“And why would I know that?” From the second you mentioned NA5 she’s gone tense, pulling her legs back to curl them under her, and her arms drop to fold over her chest. “I’m not a hyena.” 

This sigh is deeper than the last. “Because you’re smart and clever, and I trust Kanaya’s moirail.” You could bite your tongue to bleeding over that last lie. “You must have survived that hellhole for a reason.” 

“Well, congratulations on your stupid decision,” she says, shrinking even further into herself as she scowls up at you. “I’m not gonna be your chump, though. You can forget it.”

“Vriska.” Kanaya pulls the other troll into an embrace so tender you have to look away. “I know how you feel about your home district.” She runs her fingers through Vriska’s straightened hair, gentle as she lays her cheek to the other’s forehead. 

“Like hell,” Vriska snorts, but you can see her visibly relaxing. 

“We need your help to get Feferi back,” Kanaya says softly, shifting her face down until she’s almost speaking the words into Vriska’s mouth, and she rocks her from side to side almost imperceptibly. “She’s been kidnapped by the Grand Highblood, and she’s in trouble...” 

You can’t look at this. You excuse yourself to the bathroom with a quick step. As you sit on the toilet lid and massage your temples you tell yourself Kanaya is doing whatever it takes to get Vriska’s cooperation; that Kanaya is in a legitimate relationship with Vriska that has nothing to do with what you have with her. Stupid human, stupid ignorant jealous human that can’t fathom basic alien relationships. 

It’s a good fifteen minutes by your phone that you spend in that cramped bathroom before there’s a soft knock on the door. That can only be Kanaya, and you murmur a short _Yeah._

“She’s agreed to help us,” she says as she opens the door, her hand staying on the knob to swing it back and forth with distraction. “She just needs some time to get in contact with a few trolls, is how she put it.”

“How long?” You stand, but suddenly you feel very awkward about touching your girlfriend. Matesprit. You feel like an old toy. 

“About a week.” Kanaya lets go of the door to take both your hands in hers. “Then she’s going to take us into the district.” 

“How?” you want to know, but Kanaya just shakes her head. 

“She wouldn’t say.” 

“Why does she need a _week_ , though? Anything could happen to Feferi in a week!” you protest as Kanaya leads you out of the bathroom. 

“Those are the terms I could get her to agree to,” she says. “We’re lucky she didn’t ask for longer.” 

You sigh. “Alright. Does that mean we can go?” 

That’s when Kanaya lets go of you, twisting her fingers together as she glances at the floor. “Actually, I wanted to stay a little longer with Vriska. Alone,” she adds. And it’s like a slap. 

“Oh,” is all you can manage after one very long, faltering moment. “For moirail business.” 

“That’s one way to refer to it,” Kanaya says with this coy little smile. Her eyes are far away, where they can’t see you swallowing the lump that suddenly appears in your throat, or the way you blink rapidly before looking toward the door. “Is that alright, Rose?” 

“No, of course it is, don’t be silly,” you say, already stretching up to grab your coat from where it’s draped over Kanaya’s. When you can’t get it down from the peg Vriska put up for trolls her own height of six foot eight, Kanaya reaches over your head to pull it gently down for you. “When do you think you’ll be home?” 

“I don’t really know,” she says as she hands down your scarf and earmuffs. “I think we have some things to talk through, so it might be a while.” 

“Okay,” you tell the door, wrapping your scarf around before buttoning up your coat. “I’ll see you at home, then.” 

She embraces you from behind, hands clasping over your collarbone, and you hook your hands over her wrists for a moment before you eke out a goodbye and scurry out the door. 

Most people would counsel against calling your ex in the state you’re in, but you’re pretty sure you so thoroughly embarrassed yourself toward the end of your relationship with Aradia that there’s no chance of either of you making a stupid mistake. You don’t think you can stand to be alone right now. 

The phone call is short. You don’t explain much, but you choke on your words when you ask her if she could please just keep you company, and she interrupts you to tell you she’s on her way. 

“I feel so stupid,” you murmur into your tea, curled up in the corner of your couch. Aradia sits in the opposite corner, legs stretched out in the space between you. 

“Stupid isn’t the word I would use,” she says, arching her brows when you look at her over the rim of your cup. “Maybe wise. Wary. Worried for your matesprit.” 

“I’m not worried about Vriska hurting Kanaya, Kanaya can certainly take care of herself,” you snort as you put your tea aside. “I just... I know it’s a different quadrant. I see my brother navigating quadrants pretty much _effortlessly_ and i just wonder what it is that I don’t get.” 

“Rose—if you don’t mind me saying this—I’m pretty sure your brother plays the game because he likes the prize,” Aradia says, lifting her hands to make a circle with one and poke a finger through with her other. 

“Aradia!” 

“Well, it’s true!” she says with a shrug, though thankfully she stops making that gesture. “Dave doesn’t care if Gamzee and Karkat want conjugal pale visits or however you want to put it, because he knows Gamzee will still come back to him, and because he’s got Tavros to play with besides.” 

“That seems like kind of an emotionless way to describe one of the most overly emotional people I know,” you say, tapping exasperated fingers on your knee. “I suppose Tavros tells you these things.” 

“Pretty much,” she replies with a grin. 

“So what’s wrong with _me_ , then?” you groan. “I’m supposed to be the open-minded one. Dave wouldn’t even touch trolls when I was going out with you.” 

“That’s your first problem,” she says, jabbing a finger your way. “Get over yourself.” 

“I thought you were here to make me feel better,” you grumble, going for your tea again. 

“You asked, I answered. If you don’t like the answer, you don’t have to ask the question,” Aradia says with another shrug. “Have you thought that maybe you and Dave came into having to share quadrants on different terms?” 

“What do you mean?” You take a sip. 

“Dave started going out with Tavros because Gamzee thought he needed a red quadrantmate, despite being human, so to him quadrants are probably just ways to get laid more than he would otherwise. Or okay, not ‘just’ that,” she adds, holding up a hand before you can get defensive on your twin’s behalf. “But for him it’s definitely a win-win situation, right?” 

“Yeah.”

“And then _you_ have to deal with Vriska, which is a losing situation no matter which way you look at it,” she laughs. “The end.” 

You toss a throw pillow at her for being so unhelpful, but she just laughs some more, and you can’t help but smile. At least you’re not alone in how you feel about your girlfriend’s new moirail. You put your tea down to shift on the couch and lean up on Aradia; she turns on the TV, but it’s just New York 1, the volume low, and for a while you just sit quietly like that. She’s always been a soothing presence. 

“So what was it you wanted from Vriska anyway? I can’t imagine you’d just third-wheel it for the fun of it,” Aradia wants to know as she mutes the TV. Pat Kiernan’s face is all you need, anyway. 

“Oh, we need her help for something,” you say as you sit up. “Kanaya got her to agree while I hid in the bathroom because I couldn’t deal with the snuggle factor of 11 that was happening. We just have to wait for an entire week while she probably sits on her ass and enjoys that she’s making me wait a week for her help.” 

“Why would you ask _Vriska Serket_ of all people for help?” You’ve never met a more judgmental gray face, you’re pretty sure. “There is not _one_ possible thing she could help with that I couldn’t do better. Why didn’t you come to me?” 

You fiddle with the blanket that’s not quite pulled over your legs, sighing as you answer. “Because she’s from NA5. We need someone from that district to help us.”

“You did not just tell me you plan to try a rescue mission for Feferi with only Kanaya and _Vriska_ ,” Aradia says with narrowed eyes. “Rose, that’s stupid.” 

“I thought stupid wasn’t the word you would use for me.” A top notch dodge on your part. 

“For this? Yeah, no, this is stupid.” She shakes her head and groans. “What was she going to do for you, find you a secret entrance or something?” 

“Well, yes.” 

“There are no ‘secret entrances’ in districts! She’s tricking you.” 

“Maybe it’s different in NA5, and I can’t see why she’d try to deceive Kanaya if she actually cares about her so much. Please, Aradia, I have to try anything.” You finally look up at her properly, sucking your lower lip between your teeth. “Feferi got kidnapped on my watch. They could be doing anything to her.” 

“Fine.” Aradia stands abruptly, hands planted firmly on her hips. “But I’m going, too.” 

“Aradia, you don’t have to do—” you start to say, but she holds up a stiff hand. “NA5 is dangerous for warmbloods like you!” 

“You think you’re any safer because you’re human? Those hyenas will tear you apart, and Kanaya won’t be able to protect you, as much as I know she’ll sincerely try.” She bares her teeth. “I’m going to make sure Vriska doesn’t screw you over. I’ll just need that week she’s bullshitting you for, too, to go off my meds.” 

_That_ makes you jump. “Go off—? Doesn’t the buildup take weeks to leave your system?” 

“I know how to speed up the process,” she says, grim in her expression as she shifts from foot to foot. “Don’t worry about that.” 

“Won’t the withdrawal hurt you? Won’t someone find out—”

“Rose!” she suddenly barks, and you subside into a mollified little pile of person on the couch. She sighs heavily, pulling a hand through her hair. “I just... I fell apart when they took Tavros. I didn’t do _anything_ , and everybody got hurt because I was too stunned to move. So now,” she continues, clapping her hands together with resolution, “I’m going to make sure everybody goddamn survives. Nobody’s going to get hurt because of me again.” And she swallows hard, because Aradia Megido doesn’t cry. 

“Okay.” You hold up your arms, and she takes a good solid moment before falling into them gratefully. 

By the time Kanaya comes home—her move back was quiet, almost disregarded—Aradia is long gone, and curiously she has nothing to say about Vriska. In fact—and you keep to yourself how relieved it makes you—it’s as if Vriska doesn’t exist, and Kanaya’s only coming home from work. If anything she’s _more_ amorous—you almost burn dinner when you nearly succumb to the idea of letting Kanaya bend you over the counter. Maybe you can deal with sharing her with Vriska after all. 

Of course, you don’t feel that way when a week later, Vriska shows up at your door a full three hours earlier than agreed upon. She looks kind of sweaty and ill, but she still sweeps past you into your own apartment and sits on your couch to chat up your girlfriend. She ignores your questions about what she plans to do to get you into the district, and you’re starting to doubt she has any plan at all as you watch her wobble around the living room with pupils like pinpricks. You’re all too glad when Aradia arrives, though she doesn’t look any fresher than Vriska, honestly. 

Unauthorized humans aren’t allowed on the shuttle between the PATH station and the district, but luckily the driver is a troll who doesn’t much question the quick flash of your Bureau badge in the dark, and he doesn’t care about the blood color of any given troll who wants to go to NA5, so long as they don’t cause a ruckus on his bus. 

The problem is, Vriska is leading you right up to the front gate, which is exactly where you wanted to avoid. You can see a very bored looking troll leaning on his hand in the security booth, and you stop short to hiss, “Vriska! I thought you said you knew a different way in!” 

“Oh, I never said that,” Vriska drawls, much too loud. “I said I could _get_ you in. Maybe you’ve got some hearing deficiency you wanna get checked out, huh?” And she marches right up to the guard. 

“Aw, hey, Vris,” he says. “Who’s your—?” He falters, suddenly sitting up stiffly. In contrast to Vriska’s eyes his pupils blow out wide until there’s barely even any yellow to be seen, and there’s a tremor to his hands as he places them on his tiny desk. His face is shiny with sweat. 

“Thanks, Nimius,” Vriska says, ambling past as if she’s not shaking just as badly. “You were always the sweetest. Come on, guys, let’s get this shit done.” 

“I knew there were no secret entrances,” Aradia snorts as she brings up the rear. “Typical Vriska.” 

“Hey, I got us in, didn’t I? Lay off.” She clutches at her sleeves, teeth chattering, and you know it has nothing to do with the temperature. “Come on, slow pokes, I wanna put some distance between us and ol’ Nimmy before I let him go.” 

The district is about as bad as you expected. The buildings are barely worthy of the title, and there’s garbage everywhere; the smell is nearly indescribable, somewhere between an unwashed armpit and rotting meat. You walk in the center of your three troll escorts, who do their best—even Vriska—to hide you from prying eyes. Not that it works very well, because you definitely meet eyes with at least a few trolls, but they’re all apathetic sacks of bones that just snort and scratch themselves. Not much of a threat there. 

“Where do you think they would have Feferi?” you whisper, squeezing Kanaya’s hand. You have to jog every now and then to keep up with the trolls; even Aradia, the shortest of them as a lowblood, is at least six inches taller than you. 

“I know just the shit shack,” Vriska mutters, whipping her head a few times as if to shake off a fly. She huffs once, and you can see her shoulders sag, which makes you think she must have released the gate guard from what is undoubtedly her mind control. She needed a week to try and detox as much as Aradia did. 

The shack she leads you to is marginally better than the others, but what makes it hard to look at is what’s plugging the cracks and holes in the structure, bulbous and porous much like wasp nests you’ve seen upstate. You don’t know how it’s achieved, and for once you really don’t want to know. But Vriska points, and says that Feferi’s probably in there, so maybe you should go knock. 

“I’m not knocking on that,” you say, pulling closer to Kanaya. “What if you’re wrong?” 

“Fine, be a coward. Figures not all humans are brave and fun,” she snarls as she walks backwards toward the door. She doesn’t even turn around, swinging her fist over her shoulder to pound on the door. “Feferi, are you in there! Get your fishy ass out here!” 

“Who’s there?” The voice that responds is Feferi’s, full of fear and warning, and you can hear her scrabbling toward the door. Your heart swells. 

“Is that her?” Vriska asks, and you nod. “Great. I’m gonna go do a thing. I’ll meet you losers back here in five.” Before anyone can protest, she’s gone, hands shoved in her pockets as she stalks off. 

But you don’t care, because the door is opening, and there’s Feferi. Whole and alive, without a mark on her. She’s still wearing her nightclothes from the night she was stolen, definitely looking worse for wear, and her braid is halfway unraveled, but she’s _here_. She looks down at your beaming face with an uncertain flap of her fins, and just says, “Rose?” 

“It’s me, Feferi,” you say softly as you step forward. “We came to take you home, everything’s okay now.” 

“How did you get in?” she asks, making no move toward you. “Humans aren’t allowed in here without papers and clearance, they told me. Did you get papers?” 

“Not exactly,” you say. “But it doesn’t matter! You can come home now, and I’ll fix you whatever you want, and I’ll fix your braid, and everything will be fine.” 

But she just scowls at you, says, “I’m not going anywhere with you.” She turns her back on you, goes back inside and starts to shut the door. 

You dart in after her, leaving a protesting Kanaya and Aradia outside. The smell of rotting meat becomes inexplicably intense. “What do you mean, you’re not leaving? Is it because of Kanaya?” Definitely they didn’t leave each other on good terms, but you wouldn’t think that would be enough to keep Feferi from coming home. From missing you. 

“No, I said I’m not going anywhere with _you_. Listen to what I said.” She still won’t face you, flopping on a dirty loveseat with only one cushion. An older TV is paused on a frame of Finding Nemo, the static at the bottom giving it away as a VHS. “Go away, Rose.” 

“You’re not telling me you want to stay in this pigsty, are you?” you ask, coming around to stand next to the cushion-less side of the couch. Where is that smell _coming_ from? 

“I don’t know what that means,” she says, very pointedly angling her body away from you. “I’m staying here.” 

“It means I don’t want you to get sick and die out here! When’s the last time you ate?” You put your hand on her shoulder, which she shrugs off immediately. 

“This morning. Why do you care?” She watches the paused screen like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. 

“I don’t know what’s happened to you in the time I haven’t been able to come get you, and I’m _sorry_ I wasn’t able to come sooner. But you have to believe I care about you a lot, Feferi! I miss you, very much,” you say, twisting your hands together now that she won’t let you touch her. 

“You knew,” she says quietly, which is no answer at all to what you just said, so at first you don’t even know what she said. 

“Knew what?” 

“You knew what they did to Dualscar!” Suddenly it feels like there’s no room left in the shack, Feferi towering over you and filling up the whole room. “He told me! He showed me! He told me you knew what they did, you were part of the plan!” 

“I don’t know what happened to Dualscar!” you wail, backing up against the wall until you hit one of the organic outcroppings. “Who told you, Feferi? Who’s ‘he’?” 

“Yes, you know! You do know!” Feferi snarls, and you’ve never been more aware of her sharp teeth. “Look at it!” She reaches down into a shopping bag next to the arm of the couch, and pulls something out. 

Now you know the source of the smell, because it’s being thrust in your face, and it’s all you can do not to vomit. Dualscar’s head has been away from the body for a long time, the violet eyes staring straight ahead. Maggots wriggle inside the eyelids and from the stump of his neck. 

“They killed him, and you lied to me!” she shrieks, so loud you think your eardrums might rupture. One of her clammy hands wraps around your forearm when you try to look away, your eyes rolling, your throat burning with bile. “You lied to me! You knew! You knew—!” 

You try to pull away, and Feferi yanks you back so hard your face collides with Dualscar’s, at the same time that pain cracks like lightning in your arm, throwing out jagged roots that spread to your wrist and up past your elbow. You scream—and the door bursts open, Feferi flying back to slam against the wall. Dualscar’s head drops with an ugly _thunk_ and rolls under the couch. Aradia appears in the doorway, her breath heavy and her hands raised. “Rose, let’s go!” 

Under different circumstances you might refuse, might say something about still needing to talk it out with Feferi, but in this moment you just run straight for the door. You feel invisible forces supporting you, cradling your screaming arm, and those same forces push the door shut behind you as you stumble into Kanaya’s embrace. 

“I don’t know what happened,” you babble as Kanaya inspects your arm. “I think they brainwashed her, she kept saying I knew about Dualscar being—”

“We have to get out of here,” Aradia says, scanning your surroundings. “That was pretty noisy, and someone who actually cares is probably going to come out and investigate.” 

“Her arm is broken,” Kanaya says, one hand steady on your good shoulder. “We can’t get back out without Vriska, where is she?” 

“This is what happens when you trust a Serket,” Aradia mutters. “I can probably blast us through the gate, but I’m going to scout ahead a minute. Stay here with Rose.” She points at the shack. “Feferi should be knocked out after how hard I hit her, so she shouldn’t bother you.” And she dashes off. 

“I’m so sorry, Rose,” Kanaya whispers. 

“You were right,” you sniffle. “I treated her like a pet. This is all my fault.” 

She doesn’t say anything, because you’re right, but she still hushes you and holds you closer, your back pressed to her stomach. 

“Aradia’s taking longer than a minute,” you say after a good three, frowning. “Do you think something happened?” 

Kanaya doesn’t have a chance to respond. Aradia comes sprinting from around the corner of another shack nearby, eyes wide with panic. Sweat drips from her forehead, and her whole body convulses. Kanaya narrows her eyes as Aradia nears. “What—?” 

“Run, you have to run!” Aradia shouts. “Someone called the Bureau, there’s agents coming this way!” 

“The only way out is through the front gate!” Kanaya says, scooping you up like a bride over threshold without asking. Now’s not the time to ask for permission, though. “How do we—.”

“Rose can’t be seen!” Aradia finally reaches you and pushes violently at Kanaya’s back, urging her on. “Fuck the guard, just get her _out_ of here!” 

“It went this way!” you hear in the distance, accompanied by the tromping sound of disciplined feet hitting the dirt. “Bring it around!” 

Kanaya gathers you up closer, which jostles your broken arm—but you bite your lip until it feels like you’re going to bite through—and she takes off in a faster run than you thought her capable of. The ground is a blur, and over her shoulder you can see Bureau police swarming after Aradia, followed by a military vehicle carrying a cargo you recognize. Your guts twist. 

“Go back! Go back!” you scream, but Kanaya is focused on nothing but bringing you to safety. “Kanaya! Go back!” 

She brings you into a shadowy corner at last, and she swings you around just enough that she won’t break your nose, too, when her back hits the tin wall, rattling it. She exhales with a tremble, her fingers squeezing you tight even as you struggle to escape. “We have to go back!” you gasp as one particularly stupid move makes a jolt of pain shoot up into your shoulder. 

“We have to keep you safe, the consequences for you will be very different if you’re caught in the district,” Kanaya mutters. “Sit still, Rose, please.” 

“Conseque—I’m human! They won’t,” and you falter, because you know better, you know they’d kill you. You’re barely worth more than your average troll to them, and you finally go limp. You hear bodies hitting metal walls, and you know Aradia is fighting back. Maybe things will be okay. Aradia is strong. 

“What are you two doing relaxing back here?” a sharp, familiar voice says, and Vriska steps out of the darkness with a scowl. She looks like she’s recovered some, at least, the tremors much less apparent. “Let’s get out of this hell hole.” 

“Where were you?” Kanaya asks, standing straight and adjusting her hold on you again. “How did you get away from the Bureau police?” 

“Way more important is getting you out of here,” Vriska says. “Come on, I know where they won’t be.” 

“What’s important is _why_ the Bureau is here,” you say, eyeing Vriska suspiciously. “Did you call them?” 

“All part of my master plan,” she says, as easily as if admitting she stole the last slice of pie. “We’ll get out of here way easier, now.” She looks the pair of you up and down. “Of course, my master plan assumed you bozos wouldn’t fuck things up and would actually have Feferi with you. Not you, Kanaya,” she adds, flashing her a beatific smile that Kanaya doesn’t return. “Come on.” 

_Low pulse countdown!_ a far-off voice bellows, and the bottom of your stomach drops out, everything going cold. _All officers ready!_

You wish, later, you had just let Kanaya take you away. You wish you didn’t wrestle yourself back to the ground and peer around the corner of the shack. You wish, honestly, you could take the whole day back. But you do jump down, and you do clamp your good hand around the edge of the tin siding, eyes wide with horror. Bureau officers lay on the ground nearly everywhere you can see, some more clearly dead than the others, but Aradia is surrounded now by a ring of agents holding laser rifles to her, trapped. 

_Low pulse ready!_ the voice reports. _Low pulse activating!_

You can _feel_ the pulse in your bones, and against the inner workings of your ears, shooting out from the bulky machine in the Hummer. Aradia convulses again, but this time more violently, and only once, before collapsing in a heap. One Bureau officer steps up, his feet blocking her head—

—and fires straight down, dark red blood splattering him even as it pools around the treads of his boots. 

Kanaya’s hand claps over your mouth as you cry out, muffling you as she pulls you back into the darkness. “We have to go,” she keeps saying, picking you up again. There’s no fight left in you, only screams, and as Kanaya picks up speed you see Vriska limping up ahead. The low pulse is designed to hit only a particular part of the brain found in warmbloods, but with her own brand of psychic ability Vriska is not immune, and it’s like she’s lost motor function in at least half her body. 

“You killed her!” you screech through tears you didn’t even know were there. “And she’s not going to be the only one they kill!” 

“I don’t give a fuck!” Vriska snaps over her shoulder, which trips her up enough that she falls to her knees in the dirt. Kanaya yanks her back up by the armpit. “They can all fucking die for all I care! _Fuck_ this district!” 

“You don’t mean that,” Kanaya says, though her tone says she doesn’t believe her own words. “The low pulse is messing with your head.” 

“No!” she shrieks, staggering to her feet as she tears away from Kanaya’s grasp. “You don’t know what it’s fucking like, being at the mercy of these fucking animals! I didn’t want Aradia to die, but if the rest of those goddamn hyenas go with her, then _great_ , it was worth it!” 

You hear more rifles firing as the three of you round a corner, and you know Vriska’s getting her wish. “Who’s alive now, chumps?!” she cackles to the sky. “Everything’s coming up Vriska!” 

When you pass through the gate, agent-free as promised, Vriska just puts Nimius to sleep. There’s no way you can call the shuttle without arousing suspicion, so you trudge for a good two hours to the Newark PATH station. Kanaya makes a point of moving to a separate car once Vriska sits down. 

Kanaya takes you to the hospital, and your arm gets examined and set as you lie about your injury—you got your arm caught in a subway door and pulled back too hard, aren’t you stupid, aren’t you amazing—but you’re numb for the whole thing, and when they send you home at last, you find you can’t even cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not going to lie, this chapter was hard to write, but i've had it planned for a long time. i know this is kind of different from early nukestuck at this point, but hopefully you'll stay with me for the rest of the story! 
> 
> as always, please tell me all your thoughts, emotions, reactions and predictions in comments—i always love reading them and replying, and sometimes it can even sway the direction of the story, no matter what i've planned! so, uh, yeah.


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